


Lies

by SilverDust09



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bloodraven is not a good person, Cersei is dead, Euron Greyjoy is His Own Warning, Euron has the Dragonbinder, Jaime becomes King of the Rock and the Reach, Joff is dead, Jon Snow breaks his vows, Jon Snow is pissed, Jon fucks off to Essos, Lyanna Stark Lives, Ned Stark Lives, No Bran the Broken, No Night King, Oberyn Lives, Prophecy, R Plus L Equals J, Robb is married to the Frey Girl, Stannis wins the Battle of Blackwater, Tommen is dead, fAegon meets Dany, no red wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2020-01-16 03:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 95
Words: 299,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDust09/pseuds/SilverDust09
Summary: Ned Stark isn't executed and joins the Night's Watch. Arriving at the Wall Ned gives Jon the truth about his mother...





	1. The Truth

_Next time we will see each other, we will talk about your mother._

Ned had barely recalled the promise he had given the boy upon his departure for King’s Landing. Back then he had believed that he had years before he would be forced to tell the boy the truth.

“It is beautiful here,” Ned said as he stepped into the small grove harboring nine weirwood trees. “It almost feels like home.”

“It’s here where the recruits from the north swear their vows,” Jon explained, his longish face even paler in the bright morning light. It was a Stark face, but his grey eyes were darker and his brown hair reminiscent of his mother rather than Ned or his Uncle Brandon. The boy was all Lyanna, safe for the eyes, his eyes were the eyes of a stranger, a man who Ned hadn’t thought about in years. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon.

“They forced me to swear my vows before coming here to the Wall,” Ned explained in return and stepped closer towards the weirwood trees. “I had no other choice.”

The weirwood trees with their crimson leaves stood out against the fresh-fallen snow like a sore wound. Ned had always sought the comfort of the godswood when his mind was filled with doubt, but now he felt only dread.

“Of course not,” Jon replied and nodded his head in understanding. “You are no traitor, aren’t you?”

Ned nodded his head, feeling ashamed of his lie, but then it had been the only way to save Sansa and Arya, though only Arya had been allowed to return to Winterfell while Sansa remained betrothed to Joffrey.

 _A greater honor than a traitor deserves_ , the Queen had told him, but the truth was much colder. Sansa might become Queen, but she would also be a hostage till the end of her days.

He hadn’t even been allowed to speak to her before his departure, but his heart filled with dread when he thought of her being wed to Cersei Lannister’s bastard. His only hope was that Stannis Baratheon would prevail against the Lannisters and retrieve his girl.

“Father?” the boy’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”

 _Father_ , Ned thought. He had never thought of himself as the boy’s father. It was another lie that had burdened him all these years. A lie Lyanna had forced upon him. _No, it is time to tell the boy the truth. Mayhaps it will help to ease my heavy heart._

“I heard you, my boy.”

Then, he shook his head and touched the cool bark of the weirwood tree.

“I lied to protect Sansa and Arya. It is all true…Joffrey is a bastard and so are the rest of Cersei’s children.”

Jon didn’t answer at once, his expression as serious and thoughtful.

“I would have done the same. You do not need to feel ashamed, father,” Jon replied at last and drew closer, his black cloak swishing after him through the snow. His wolf followed closely, his ruby eyes piercing into Ned’s. It felt as if the wolf was able to smell his dirty lie.

“I see,” Ned replied and sucked in a deep breath. “But that is not the reason I called you here. You asked me about your mother…,” he trailed off, his voice failing him.

The boy’s dark eyes widened in hope and fear.

“Who was she?” he asked, his voice drowned out by the howling wind. “Where did you meet her?”

Ned had mulled over this moment a thousand times, but now he didn’t know what to say.

“I think we should start at the beginning of the tale…the Tourney of Harrenhall.”

“The Tourney of Harrenhall?” Jon asked in confusion. “Is that where you met her?”

“No,” Ned replied and forced the words over his lips. “Do you remember the name Howland Reed? He saved my life during the rebellion…”

“Aye,” Jon confirmed and brushed his hair out of his face, but the strong wind blew it back into his eyes. “But what does he have to do with my mother?”

“I shall explain it all,” Ned promised and braced himself. “Lord Howland Reed is my friend, but my sister Lyanna was even dearer to him. There was a group of squires that attacked Lord Howland Reed on the first day of the tourney and my sister and your Uncle Benjen defended him. Later that night Lyanna had him dressed up in Benjen’s clothing and invited him to sit at our table. Sadly, she did much more than that to help him…”

Jon had listened in silence, his eyes growing wider with every word spilling from Ned’s lips.

“What did she do?”

“Something very brave,” Ned replied in a heavy voice. “She dressed herself up as a mystery knight to defend Howland Reed’s honor…the Knight of the Laughing Tree. She was successful, but she also made an unknown enemy that day.”

“Was it…,” Jon began, his voice barely above a whisper. “Was this enemy Prince Rhaegar Targaryen? Is that why he took her?”

“No,” Ned replied and shook his head. “The unknown enemy she made was the Mad King, but the King sent his son to find this mystery knight,” he trailed off.

“And then he found her and raped her,” Jon finished for him.

It was another lie. A lie Ned had supported to protect this boy from Robert’s wrath.

Robert was dead now and all that was left of his legacy was a Lannister bastard.

 _Mayhaps that was his punishment_ , Ned thought. _For building his throne upon the blood of innocents…Princess Elia and her smothered babes._

 _And I stood by and watched,_ Ned knew and was barely able to meet the boy’s gaze. _Mayhaps that is why the gods punished me._

“That was what I and Robert believed…it was the only thing that made sense to us after Lyanna’s sudden disappearance and the fact that Prince Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty,” Ned forced the bitter truth over his lips. “We all thought she was abducted, but once all was said and done Howland Reed and I found out the truth. Lyanna was never abducted…she loved the Prince.”

“Loved the Prince?” the boy asked and shuddered from head to toe. “I do not understand….What does all this have to do with my mother?”

It didn’t surprise Ned that the boy’s mind refused to accept the truth.

And yet there was no turning back.

“It matters, because Lyanna was your mother and because Prince Rhaegar took her as his second wife…it was only a vow beneath the weirwood tree, but that wouldn’t have mattered to Robert,” Ned explained.

The boy didn’t speak nor move. He looked as if Ned had poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

“That’s a lie,” the boy said in utter disbelief, his face growing paler with every passing moment. “You are lying to me, are you not?”

“No,” Ned replied and was about to step towards the boy, but his piercing dark eyes stopped him. “It is no lie…Rhaegar Targaryen was your true father.”

“So you are telling me that all my life was a lie?” Jon asked, his mouth twisting in pain.

“Why?” the boy demanded know, his voice icy and distant. “Why did you lie?”

“To protect you,” Ned gave the boy the reason. “Robert would have killed you like Prince Rhaegar’s other children…I had no other choice…,” he tried to explain his reasoning, but the boy cut him off.

“Protect me?” the boy asked and started to laugh. It was a laugh filled with pain and resentment. “By treating me like a fool?”

“Robert would have killed you,” Ned repeated and tried not to flinch. He had expected such a reaction, but it had been necessary, the only way to honor his promise to Lyanna. “He hated your father too much and Lyanna asked me to protect you…I had no other choice…” he continued, but Jon’s snapping voice cut him off.

“You made me believe that I am the sole stain on Lord Eddard Stark’s white vest!” the boy choked out angrily and started to flex his hand. “You made me believe that my mother never loved me! How much would it have cost you to tell me at least that!”

Then, the boy stumbled forward and leaned against the tree. A moment of silence passed, before he lifted his head and met Ned’s gaze, his dark eyes piercing into him like Valyrian steel.

“All I ever did was to prove my self worthy as your son. That is why I am here…that is why I left everything behind…to no longer be a burden to you…It was all a lie…all a lie,” the boy continued to mumble, tears shining in his eyes.

In that moment Ned felt as if he had been thrown back in time to the day his father had informed Lyanna about her betrothal to Robert. There had been much shouting and tears, but even Ned had been surprised by the vitriol Lyanna had shown him when he went to seek her out.

Ned had tried to comfort her, to assure her of Robert’s love, but Lyanna had only shook her head.

 _Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s character_ , she had told him and her words had proven true, though it had taken Ned years to realize it.

Robert had not been the man Ned had believed him to be. Both he and Jon Arryn had been blind to the bitter truth, but giving Robert a crown had been a grave mistake.

“I should have told you,” Ned admitted weakly and stepped closer, attempting to touch the boy’s shoulder, but he shoved his hand away, a scowling expression taking hold of his face. In that moment the boy looked so much like Lyanna it made his heart ache.

“And what consolation is that to me?” Jon asked him, his voice heavy with bitterness and pain. “I joined the Night’s Watch because I thought it was the only place for me and because I believed it would please you…’A honorable calling’ you called it, but now I am finally seeing the truth of it all. That was another lie, wasn’t it?”

“I did it to protect you,” Ned repeated, but he realized then that this explanation wasn’t enough for the boy.

“Protect me?” the boy spat at him. “Do you really believe that? You allowed me to come here despite knowing what kind of a place the Night’s Watch is. Uncle Benjen warned me, but I didn’t listen. I will tell you the real reason…you never wanted to protect me. You wanted to protect King Robert. Why else allow me to join the Night’s Watch before telling me the truth? It is awfully convenient, isn’t it? By joining the Night’s Watch the son of Rhaegar Targaryen would no longer pose a danger to his rule. Did you ever care for me at all or was that another lie?”

The boy had spoken with so much vitriol that Ned was at a loss of word.

He had expected anger, but not these accusations. Jon had always been such a calm boy. Ned had hoped he would understand.

“Mayhaps that was part of the reason,” Ned replied. “But my foremost goal was to protect you and _our_ family. Robert would have killed us all had he known truth…,” he continued to explain, but the boy cut him off again.

“Our family?” the boy asked, his voice laced with utter disbelief. His cheeks were deeply flushed as he broke into another angry rant “I was never really part of your family. I was always the bastard…to be hidden away and to be send to the Night’s Watch. I meant nothing to you…you even allowed your wife to believe this lie. How many years have I endured her cold stares for your sake? She was another reason I left…Gods, I should have told her what I really thought of her when I had the chance. Curse you, Uncle. Curse you, and your damn wife to the seven hells!”

Ned felt like slapped as he watched the boy balance himself against the tree. He was ringing for composure, his massive wolf brushing his head against her his hand.

“Catelyn has nothing to do with this,” Ned added once the boy had regained his composure. “I lied to her as well. She tolerated you for my sake. She did it out love.”

“Love?” the boy choked out. “The last time I spoke to her she told me that I should have been crippled instead of Bran. So deep goes her love for you, my lord. She wished death upon your blood.”

Then, the boy turned around and was about to return to his horse, but in the last moment the boy turned around and flashed him an icy look.

“You are no longer my father. I cast you aside, just as you cast me aside. Do not ever speak to me again.”

 _He needs time_ , Ned told himself that night. _In time he will come to accept his fate._

Thus, he kept his distance and tried his best accept his own fate.

Yet his hopes soon turned to ash when he was called before the Lord Commander.

“Jon Snow is gone,” the Old Bear informed him in a grim voice, his bothersome raven seated atop his shoulder. The bird’s small black eyes watched Ned as he tried to absorb this piece of information. “He took his horse and left in the middle of the night. He also left his black cloak and the sword I gifted him for saving my life.”

Ned could neither speak nor move. Ned brushed his hands over his face, the burden of his failure pressing down on him.

_I failed, Lyanna. I failed._

…


	2. The Exile

**The Exile**

Jon watched as Daario drowned another cup of wine and pulled another whore into his lap. Jon had never met a more grotesque man than him. His beard was cut in three prongs, all dyed blue. His eyes and curly hair were equally blue, but his mustachios were painted gold. Yet the most startling about him were his golden tooth and his frilly garments. He was a fool and a mummer, but that couldn’t change the fact that he was a capable fighter.

Jon had joined the _Stormcrows_ scarcely a year ago and had had plenty of time to see their prowess in battle. First they had fought a handful of small skirmishes against a Dothraki horde and scarce four moons ago they had fought a bloody struggle against another sellsword company hired from Myr. It had been Jon's second taste of battle and he had done well. At least that is what Sallor had told him when he saw the blood on his blade, though Ghost had killed far more men than him. Sallor, like Daario, was another joint commander and in charge of the archers. He was a tall and thin man, a twisting scar marring the right cheek of his face. Jon liked him well enough, but that didn't mean he trusted this man. Sometimes, he seemed far more interested in Ghost than Jon.

"So this dragon whore expects us for an audience, eh?" Prendahl na Ghezn asked. He was a  man with a broad face and dark of hair. He also spoke with a thick Ghiscari  accent and had made it his habit to call Daenerys Targaryen "dragon whore" whenever he found the moment to do so.

Jon knew why. He felt sympathy for the Masters that had been butchered at Astapor.

As always, Daario laughed and brought his cup to his lips as the second whore settled in his lap and twirled his blue curls in a playful manner. It was the dark-haired girl from Norvos that had shared Jon's bed for nearly a week during their campaign against the Dothraki. Thinking about it made Jon realize how low he had fallen after his departure from the Night's Watch. He had been so angry and determined to leave the past behind him that he had thrown away everything he had held dear, including his honor.

The first thing he had done after arriving in Volantis was to drown himself in wine and to take a whore to bed. All his life he had suppressed his urges to please his Uncle, but that had been his way to pay him back for his betrayal. And yet as much as Jon had enjoyed this week of leisure, he had also used up all the coin he had earned by working as a shiphand. The fact that he had nearly puked out his guts out for the following three days, had been enough to get sober and to make plans. Not long after, he had made the acquaintance of the Stormcrows and had asked to join. At first, they had made fun of him, but after he had proved his mettle by defeating one of their capable warriors, they had allowed him to join.

That he was able to read and write had brought him a place as an apprentice to the paymaster. He was an elderly man and far too blind to do the accounts on his own. Jon didn’t mind helping him, though he had joined to taste blood, not to control dusty accounts.

And he had seen blood aplenty. The campaign in Myr had been bloody enough, but it had been nothing like he had imagined it.

That was another lesson he had learned. Real war was not glorious. It was bloody and afterwards, even when a victory had been won, it smelled of shit. Truly, it was no wonder that these sellswords were constantly drowning themselves in wine and whores to numb their fears.

Not that Jon blamed them. He had done the same by taking said girl to bed, though it hadn't given him as much pleasure as he had hoped for. It was cheap pleasure bought by coin. Theon Greyjoy might be able to convince himself that these girls really admired him for his supposed prowess, but Jon was not so easily blinded.

"They also say this dragon whore is the most beautiful woman in the world," Daario pointed out. "Mayhaps I can take her for my own once we have won this battle. Mad women are the best to fuck."

Jon didn't know why, but after hearing Daario's words he felt the hot breath of anger coursing through his body.

Daenerys Targaryen was a stranger to him, but even so she was his relative, his aunt, whatever that would mean to her.

All he knew about her came from stories. That her brother had sold her to a Dothraki Khal, that she had hatched dragons from a burning pyre and that she had put the Masters of Astapor to the sword. And yet, when Daario had spoken so crudely about her he couldn't help but to feel angry. It had felt as if he had spoken about Arya or Sansa, his supposed sisters. Arya, he was sure wouldn't care that he was a Targaryen, but Sansa, who was pledged to wed Joffrey would only see him as a threat. 

"Mayhaps we should listen to what she has to say before we make any hasty decisions,” Jon countered and searched Daario’s gaze. “Mayhaps she would be prepare to pay us more than we were offered by the Masters? 

Daario’s smile faded instantly, a more serious expression taking hold of his features as he pondered over Jon's words. He liked to play the fool or the flamboyant lover, but deep down he was a realist. Jon had heard that Daario had changed sides numerous times if it was to his advantage. Loyalty was a foreign word to a sellsword like him.

"It seems our paymaster has been training you well, green boy."

"My name is Aemon," Jon corrected him, though that was another lie. It was a name he had taken to conceal his identity, but he had no doubt that Daario was aware of his lie.

"Even so, you are a green boy," Daario japed and bared his golden teeth. Ghost stirred suddenly, his teeth bared. Jon patted his head to calm him, but Daario seemed not the least bit frightened. His smile grew only brighter. "A boy who can't drown a flagon of wine without puking his guts out is no true man."

"Even so," Jon countered and took a sip from his cup. "You should at least listen to what Daenerys Targaryen has to offer you. She has three dragons, ten-thousand Unsullied and a horde of Dothraki following her. Aegon Targaryen took the Seven Kingdoms with less than that. She is clearly on a conquest and by helping her with this conquest we might all get very rich.”

"Her brother was the Beggar King," Prendahl scoffed. "They say she stole the Unsullied and killed men who invited her into their city. How trustworthy can a whore like here be if she butchers innocent men?"

"Innocent men," Jon scoffed and couldn't help but to laugh. The short time he had spent in Volantis had shown him how innocent the Masters were. Back when he had lived in Winterfell he had never taught much about the topic of slavery, but now he knew why it was outlawed in Westeros. It  was a disgusting practice and what the Masters of Astapor did to boys to turn them into Unsullied was even more disgusting No, Jon felt no sympathy for these slavers. They could burn for all he cared. "The Masters of Astapor are hardly innocent. They built their riches upon the suffering of those beneath them."

"As if the Lords and Kings of the Sunset Kingdoms are any different. The only difference is that you call them smallfolk and not slaves. Do not act so highly, green boy. You know nothing of the world," Prendahl replied and smiled smugly. "You know nothing of the world."

"Mayhaps that is true," Jon granted him grudgingly. "But slavery is outlawed where I come from. You also seem to forget that many a man here in this company was a slave or a pit fighter. I have yet to hear them speak about their Masters’ kindness."

"You dare!" Prendahl snarled and freed his blade. "I will not take insults from a green boy."

"As you wish," Jon returned and freed his own blade. Ghost was quickly at his side and bared his teeth.

The other men laughed and snickered in amusement, but it was Daario put an end to the quarrel before it had even begun.

"Are you so easily roused by a green boy, old friend?" Daario asked and grinned. "Or are you just angry that he is not licking the Masters’ feet like other sellswords. Well, I can’t say I have ever held much love for these cunts either. My mother was a whore and I was probably fathered by one of these cunts. Later they sold me into slavery, until the day I won my freedom by becoming a champion of the pits."

"And wasn't it an honor to you? Weren't you rewarded for your loyalty? The Masters are good to those who know their place.

Daario laughed and leaned forward to pick a grape from the bowl while his other hand fondled the girl’s breast.

"The Masters can suck my cock for all I care. The only reason I fight for them is the gold they pay."

Then, he leaned forward and spit out the core before Prendhal’s feet.

"And that is why am willing to consider the green boy's idea," Daario added tauntingly and shifted his attention back to Jon. "We shall talk to the dragon whore and listen to what she has to offer.”

Jon didn't know if he should feel relieved, but this was at least something he could do for his aunt. He had considered seeking her out a year ago, but then he had realized what a silly idea that was.

What could he offer to her? Nothing, but if he could help her win this battle she might consider giving him her trust. It was all he had left or he would remain and exile until the end of his days.

It wouldn't be a bad life, but then he had recalled Master Aemon, the blind old Maester withering away at the Wall. He had no strength left to help Daenerys Targaryen, but Jon Snow did, whatever that would mean for him.

"You are listening to this green boy?" Prendhal asked. "Have you lost your mind or are you thinking with your cock?"

"My cock has always been a better judge of character than my head, old friend," Daario replied cheerfully and shifted his attention back to Jon.

It seemed Prendhal had heard enough and a heartbeat later he was gone.

"But Prendahl  is not completely wrong. They say Daenerys Targaryen took Astapor by treachery. How can we be sure that the dragon whore would keep her word?”

Jon was taken back by this question, though it didn't take long before he found an appropriate answer.

Jon knew it would be risky, but hiding the truth from her and revealing it at a later time might be just as bad of a choice.

_She might think that I came to fool her. No, it is better to be honest. Besides, I have already lost everything. I can only win._

Thus, he returned Daario's smile and tried to sound as confident as possible.

"She will listen, because she is my blood, my aunt. Allow me to speak to her and I might be able to convince her. And if she doesn't agree, well, then you can still fight for the Masters. Either way you cannot lose.”

For the first time since meeting him Daario looked stunned.

"Aemon," Daario repeated then and suddenly started to howl with laughter. "Of course! Aemon!"

Once Daario had regained his composure, he started to nod his head in understanding.

“But if she is your aunt…Why are you here with us and not with her?”

“I have never met her,” Jon admitted hesitatingly. “I cannot guarantee that she will like me, but I am prepared to face the consequences alone. Still, what I said about her isn’t wrong. I think she is on a conquest to gain an army to retake her father’s crown. You and the others could get very rich by earning her trust.”

“Prendhal will not agree. I might be able to convince Sallor, but not Prendhal. He loves his chains too much,” Daario pointed out and leaned back.

“He doesn’t have to live until the next day,” Jon suggested. “The Widower would make a better join-commander than him. I have seen him tear apart two men at once while Prendhal was pissing himself.”

“Prendhal would kill you if he knew what you just said, green boy,” Daario warned and slipped his curved blade free, showing Jon the bare steel. “But it is good for you that I have never held much liking for Prendhal.”

“Which means?” Jon asked and watched him polish the curved blade with the hem of his silken tunic.

"That we are going to meet your aunt, green boy, but be warned. Do not betray me or I shall cut off your cock and hand you over to the Masters myself. I am not a man to be trifled with, green boy.”

"I understand," Jon replied and dipped his head.  _I am not to be trifled with either_ , he thought and brushed his hand over the pommel of his sword.  _I am a green boy who has nothing to lose, but his worthless life._

And despite his threats, Daario kept his promise.

Prendhal didn’t see the next day.

…

It was beyond midday when they set out to meet his aunt. To reach her camp, they had to cross through a birchwood forest and down a slanting sandstone ridge.

The current battle plan was a simple one. The Second Sons would fight on the left wing and the Stormcrows on the right wing while the Yunkish slaves would hold the center. In total they were five thousand men to face ten-thousand Unsullied and a small horde of Dothraki. It would be a bloody battle, a battle Jon Snow didn’t want to participate in. He had already betrayed his first family. He didn’t want to do the same with his aunt.

Not long after, they finally arrived at the well-fortified camp. Daario liked to make fun of the Unsullied for lacking the essential parts of a man, but nobody could deny that they weren’t disciplined soldiers. The deep ditch they had dug around the camp was impressive and even now the woods were full of Unsullied, lopping branches off birch trees to sharpen them into stakes.

“You should have brought your wolf with you, green boy,” Daario teased him as he led his horse beside Jon’s. “I heard her dragons are not bigger than dogs.”

“Ghost will meet her soon enough,” he replied politely and kicked his feet in the sides of his horse, urging it into a faster pace. He was not in the mood for japes. He was about to meet his aunt and he had no idea how she would react to him.

_She is he Mad King’s daughter. What if she burns me upon hearing my story? My mother was part of the reason her family lost the throne._

The camp itself proved equally impressive. The tents were arranged in orderly rows and surrounded a golden pavilion in the center.  _My aunt’s dwelling place_ , Jon guessed and noticed that there lay a second encampment beyond the golden pavilion. It was sprawling and chaotic, but without ditches to protect it or even tents. Goats, sheep and half-starved dogs roamed freely amongst the horde of women, children and old men.

_Half of Astapor followed her_ , he realized with horror. The sheer amount of them worried him more than the swords of the enemy.  _These people will either be enslaved or starve to death if my aunt doesn’t win this battle._

It was a sun-kissed Unsullied leader who greeted them with a score of hundred men, their sharp spears glinting like diamonds.

“This one is Greyworm,” the man greeted them in Bastard Valyrian. “The Queen means to see the leaders of the Stormcrows.”

“And we shall be pleased to meet her,” Daario returned and climbed from his saddle, a bright smile curling on his lips. Sallor, the ever-serious joint-commander followed in silence.

Thus, they left their horses behind and were led towards the golden pavilion. Outside he spotted Dothraki, their bells ringing with every movement.

Jon counted around thirty men, but no more. It was not much, but more than Jon had to offer. All he had was Daario, who would drag his aunt into his bed like a cheap whore.

_That will never happen. I will kill him before he comes to that._

As they entered his tent, his heartbeat increased and the heat of the day was becoming almost unbearable. Sweat was rolling down his cheeks, but an almost sweet smell filled his nostrils. It was the smell of incense; of lavender, jasmine and perhaps sandalwood.

Inside he also found a heap of cushions and a young girl, seated atop it in a cross-legged position.

It was true what they had said about his aunt. She was a beautiful girl, but Jon Snow had known too few girls to judge whether she was the most beautiful.

Her soft-featured face, her silver hair and her dark purple eyes gave her an exotic appearance and yet he couldn’t help but to notice that she was still half a child.

Even the two sun-kissed ladies seated beneath her feet looked older than her. Only the slightly darker-skinned girl seated next to her looked younger than her.

There were also two men in the pavilion. One was a large man with a black beard and balding head. He was garbed in leather and wool, but it was only after Jon had laid eyes on the black bear embellished on said man’s tunic that Jon realized who he was.

Jon had seen him only a handful of times, but never this close. This man was Jorah Mormont, who had been exiled for the crime of slavery.

_What is he doing here_ , Jon wondered and lowered his head. It made him glad that he had cut his hair short.  _Why is he serving my aunt?_  

“Welcome,” his aunt greeted them in a soft-spoken voice, her deep violet eyes studying them with interest."Welcome."

It made Jon wish that he had something of the Targaryens of old to call his own.

Yet he forgot about his doubts when he laid eyes on the dragons. They were a wonder to behold, almost like a dream.

The white-and-golden dragon sat atop a cushion while the black dragon lay curled beneath the Princess’s feat. The green-and-bronze dragon was the only one who showed interest in them, his head moving back and forth, watching Jon from the distance. “Welcome, my friends. I am please to have you here. Well, what do you have to say to me?”

“You would do well to take your rabble elsewhere,” Sallor spoke his practiced lines. “You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai will not fall so easily.”

“Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten-thousand of my Unsullied,” his aunt teased sweetly. “I am only a silly girl and do not understand the ways of war, but these odds seem poor to me.”

She was not wrong. Her men surpassed their numbers and even Jon didn’t trust these slave soldiers to hold their center.

“The Stormcrows do not stand alone,” Sallor countered. “The Second Sons stand with us.”

_A band of pickpockets and savages_ , Jon knew. They were known far and wide for their lack of discipline. They would turn their back on them without hesitation.

“The Stormcrows do not stand at all,” his aunt taunted them. “They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail to be staunch when the Second Sons change sides?”

“That will not happen,” Sallor insisted weakly. He truly was a bad mummer. “And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the brave men of Yunkai.”

“You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears,” his aunt mocked his words, the bells braided into her short silver hair bringing forth a clinking sound. “Once the bloodshed has begun, you will come to see your mistake. Join me now and you shall keep the gold the Masters paid you and claim a share of the plunder. And once I come to my kingdom there shall be even greater rewards waiting for you. Fight for the Masters and your wages will be death. Do you think the Masters will open the gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?”

"You are very convincing, oh gracious Queen,” Daario said with a grin and dipped his head. “And as it stands I also think that fighting at your side could be more profitable than fighting against you.”

Jon noticed the hint of surprise in his aunt’s face. It was only subtle but it was there.

_I seems the offer surprised her._

“That is good,” she said once she had regained her composure. Then, she swept her gaze back to Daario and briefly at Jon. “But why trade mockeries if you are prepared to fight at my side?”

“To test the waters, your grace,” Jon added hesitatingly.

“Your grace,” his aunt repeated, obviously pleased with the use of her title. She even smiled a little, but her brows were slightly furrowed as she regarded Jon more closely. “You are not from Essos. Your accent is familiar…,” she trailed off, but it was Ser Jorah who gave her the answer she was seeking for.

“The boy is from the North,” the grim man said, his grey eyes piercing into Jon’s. “And I think I know him.”

The old, white-bearded man that had been lingering at the entrance of the pavilion was also watching him, though he appeared less hostile than the Ser Jorah.

His aunt gave Ser Jorah a startled look.

“You truly know him, Ser Jorah?”

“I think so,” the man said and drew closer, his hand touching the pommel of his sword. “The boy has a Stark face. I have seen him before, when he was much younger. The boy is Eddard Stark’s bastard son.”

Jon swallowed hard and his aunt’s expression darkened instantly.

“So he is the son of one of the usurper dog’s?” the girl asked, her voice laced with hostility. Jon should have expected such a reaction, but it didn’t change the displeasure he felt when he heard these words from her lips.

Jon met her gaze directly. Fear would not serve him now.

“Aye, Lord Eddard served the usurper Robert Baratheon,” Jon confirmed and shifted his attention to Ser Jorah. “The same man you served before you were exiled for the crime of slavery, isn’t that so, Ser Jorah Mormont?”

The effect was instant. Ser Jorah’s face changed to a grimace of anger and he was about to unsheathe his blade, but his aunt raised her hand to stop him.

“No fighting, Ser Jorah. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“This brazen bastard boy dared to insult me!” Ser Jorah snarled, his grey eyes fixed at Jon.

“I was just telling the truth,” Jon replied tauntingly and ignored Ser Jorah. He was not the reason he came here. The reason he came here was his aunt. “But let me be clear. I hold no grudge against Ser Jorah or you, your grace. It is true, I have Stark blood and for many years I believed myself to be his son, but that was another lie…,” he trailed off, his voice faltering as her violet eyes met his.

Swallowing hard, he forced the words over his lips.

“In truth, I have never been Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son. That was a lie he made up to protect me from R-…no the usurper’s swords. In truth, my mother was Lady Lyanna Stark and my father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon…which makes me your nephew.”

Silence followed, but that was no surprise to Jon either. He had not silver hair nor purple eyes. And yet it seemed his words had moved something inside his audience.

The handmaids looked confused, but Ser Jorah seemed to understand the implications as did the old, white-bearded man.

His aunt also seemed to understand the implications, but she appeared more shocked than anything.

“You dare to make up such lies…,” Ser Jorah began to grumble, but his aunt silenced him again.

She looked incredibly pale and trembled as she handed her cup to the younger girl seated next to her.

“Ser Jorah speaks true,” she said in an almost soft voice. “Why should I believe you? You come here after so many years…telling me that you are my nephew. Tell me, why should I believe a boy with a Stark face?”

“You have every reason to mistrust me, your grace,” he granted her and shrugged his shoulders. “I have no silver hair or purple eyes.”

Then, he pointed at the green-and-bronze dragon, still watching him. “I don’t even have a dragon. All I have is the story my uncle gave me and the bitter lies to accompany it. I never asked to be a Targaryen nor did I ask to be born. My uncle made me believe that I am his bastard, but barely a year ago, after he joined me at the Wall, I found out the truth. To protect me from the usurper he had lied to me and had allowed me to enter the Night’s Watch, forsaking lands and titles all in one. Feeling betrayed, I deserted the Wall to make for Essos. In truth, I am an oathbreaker, no better than a slave trader like Ser Jorah. Were I to return home my own brother, no cousin, would be forced to take my head.”

His aunt stared at him in utter disbelief, her mouth opening and closing. The black dragon seemed to have noticed her discomfort, because he was brushing his head against her thighs. The green and bronze dragon seemed even more anxious.

_Could it be that he is able to sense my blood?_

“Your grace,” Ser Jorah spoke again. “This boy is obviously trying to fool us…mayhaps he is even a spy.”

“I doubt that,” the old, white-bearded man remarked. Jon had never met him, but there was something soft and fearful in the way he looked at Jon. “A spy wouldn’t be so honest. I also do not think the boy is lying. It is possible…everybody knows that Rhaegar Targaryen took Lady Lyanna. Tell me, my boy? What exactly did Lord Eddard tell you about your mother and father?”

Jon met the man’s gaze and cleared his throat. He had mulled over this tale a thousand times, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to recount it.

“He told me that my mother’s abduction was a lie…he told me that my mother loved Prince Rhaegar and that he wed her beneath a weirwood tree. I suppose that makes her his second wife, though I don’t know what that means for me. The vows beneath a weirwood tree would be regarded valid by the people of the north, but I doubt it would be the same in the south. Everyone knows that my father was wed to Princess Elia Martell, his first wife. I do not know whether I am a bastard or trueborn,” he explained and angled his head to search his aunt’s face. “All I know is that you are my aunt and that Maester Aemon would have wanted to help you if he was able to do so.”

The girl’s eyes widened in confusion.

“Maester Aemon?”

“Aemon Targaryen, the son of King Maekar and brother to King Aegon the Unlikely. He was a Maester of the Citadel and later joined the Night’s Watch,” the old, white-bearded man said, his voice laced wonder. “I thought he was long dead. Did he send you here, my boy?”

“No,” Jon replied. “In truth, he would be ashamed of me for breaking my vows. And yet without breaking them I wouldn’t be here.”

Then, Jon sucked in a deep breath and searched his aunt’s face.

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but it was I who asked Daario to listen to your offer, because we all have an interest in seeing you succeed. Daario and his men long for riches and I long for home, but I can’t return without getting a pardon from a King or Queen. By helping you to the crown I can do that.”

“You don’t want the crown?” his aunt asked him, her voice barely above a whisper. “You came all the way to help me?”

Jon nodded his head. It was true. It was not the loss of his potential birthright that had angered him so much, but the fact that his uncle had lied to him all those years and that he had treated him like a fool.

“No, I don’t care for the crown. You can have it for all I care.”

“Your grace,” Ser Jorah began again and drew closer to touch his aunt’s shoulder. “I must advice you against this…this boy is…,” he continued, but his aunt cut him off, her gaze still fixed on Jon.

“Come here,” she told him. It sounded almost like an order. “Come here to my side and let me take a look at you…forgive me…I have not even asked your name?”

Jon did as she had asked of him and rose slowly to his feet.

“Among the Stormcrows they call me Aemon, but the name I have known all my life is Jon…Jon Snow.”

“Aemon,” she repeated and smiled. It gave Jon the assurance he needed. “Come here, Aemon and meet, my children.”

The silver-winged dragon stirred and the green-and-bronze one grew even more anxious as he drew closer. He flapped his wings excitedly and made a chirping sound, before he propelled himself into the air and soared towards Jon.

He landed beneath Jon’s feet and chirped again, his wings spread wide.

Jon was at a loss of words, the dragon staring back at him as if he was beckoning Jon to touch him.

Jon gathered his courage, leaned down to touch his head and surprisingly the dragon complied eagerly.

He chirped and rubbed is head against Jon’s burned hand.

“What is his name?” Jon asked his aunt, his breathing labored from the sudden excitement.

“Rhaegal,” his aunt said, her voice brimming with emotions. “He is named after my brother Rhaegar.”

“My father,” Jon whispered, unshed tears burning in his eyes. “You named him after my father.”

“This…,” Ser Jorah stuttered helplessly, his face as pale as curled milk. “Your grace…this must be a sham.”

“It is no sham. My children wouldn’t lie to me,” his aunt replied and brushed his hand away, her smile only meant for Jon. “And it also means Jon Snow will stay.”

“But your grace!” Ser Jorah exclaimed, but his aunt cut him off again.

“Enough, Ser Jorah. Your Queen has spoken. Jon Snow stays.”

Then, she angled her head looked over to Daario and Sallor. “And you shall have your gold, but first we must win. And to achieve this feat you must prove your loyalty to me.”

“Of course, oh gracious Queen,” Daario chirped in amusement. “We shall prove our loyalty to you. But how will it be done?”

His aunt smiled sweetly.

“I shall explain it to you.”

…


	3. Ghosts of the Past

**Daenerys**

_Mhysa_ , they had called her, her heart still beating fiercely when she recalled this sweet memory. The meaning of the word was mother, something she could never be. _Not until the sun rises and the west_ , she recalled the witch’s curse.

“You must be my children,” she whispered to the dragons, who lay curled on the carpet, their tails curled around their slim bodies. It was her only comfort against the pain when she recalled the babe she had lost. _Rhaego_ , she had wanted to name him. For her dear brother Rhaegar.

And while the gods hadn’t brought Rhaego back to her, they saw it fit to send her nephew here. _My supposed nephew_ , she corrected herself quickly. Rhaegal had liked him, but the visions in the House of the Undying still lingered freshly in her mind.

She still recalled the colorful cloth dragon swaying on poles amidst a cheering crowd. _The mummer’s dragon_ , she had dubbed him jestingly. _A false dragon_ , Ser Jorah had called him and had reminded her of said vision after she had decided to give Jon Snow and Daario Naharis her trust.

And despite her Bear’s warnings, showing them trust had proven more than fruitful. Daario had turned his cloak and had helped her to win the battle beneath the walls of Yunkai. Her nephew had also participated in the battle or so Daario Naharis had told her after his visit.

He was a vain man, but pleasant to look upon. His open-hearted flattery had also stirred long-buried feelings inside her. It had been a long time that a man had shared her bed. Ser Jorah had made such illusions, but she hadn’t appreciated them. He was her trusted advisor, but that would have to be enough for him. Daario Naharis was different from her Bear. He could be a pleasant bed companion, but not her trusted advisor.

 _There is not time for that, silly girl_ , she reminded herself. _You are a Queen. The Mother of Dragons._

Thus, she stepped out of the lukewarm water and allowed her two handmaids to rub her dry. Once they were finished, they braided her bells into her hair and helped her put on a green dress.

As, she stepped out of her pavilion she found Arstan Whitebeard standing guard in company of her blood riders.

He looked thoughtful, his sky-blue eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

“Arstan,” she addressed him in a quiet voice. “Where is Ser Jorah?”

“He went to attend to the Unsullied…as you bid him earlier, your grace,” Arstan replied as he lifted his head to look at her. “Do you want me to call for him?”

“No,” she replied and shook her head. “I want you to call for someone else. I want to speak to Jon Snow…my _supposed_ nephew, which is the reason I bid Ser Jorah to attend to the Unsullied.”

If Arstan was surprised by her request it didn’t show on his face.

“As you wish, your grace,” was all he replied, before departing on his quest.

Satisfied, Dany returned to her handmaids and sat down on the cushions placed on the floor. The little girl Missandei was not seated far from her, her dark eyes flickering over a parchment.

Not long after, the flaps of the tents parted and Arstan led Jon Snow inside.

He looked different from last time, younger and more vulnerable. Last time, he had worn his armour, but now he was only garbed in dark breeches, boots and a faded white tunic. Beneath the tunic, she noticed bandages and above his brow she noticed a deep cut, the proof his participation in the last battle. When she had asked Daario about her nephew’s performance, he had looked slightly disappointed.

 _The green boy has a lot to learn_ , was all he had answered. _But he survived._

Dany had been relieved, though she still didn’t know what to make of Jon Snow. Looking at him, she saw not much of herself in this comely young man.

Jon Snow was not particularly tall, but looked very fit. It was not hard to see that he had served as a sellsword. His face was very long and solemn and framed by dark hair, neither completely black nor brown, though it had a pleasant curl which helped to soften his wolfish features. His eyes were equally dark, though it was hard to say whether they were black or grey.

Compared to Daario, he looked almost plain, but there was something pleasant about his accent. He certainly no mummer like Daario, but it was hard to read his feelings. They were well-hidden beneath those dark eyes.

“Your grace,” he greeted her and dipped his head, his dark eyes meeting hers across the tent. “You called for me?”

“I did,” Dany confirmed and felt suddenly at a loss at words. She didn’t know how to approach him. He might very well be her nephew, but also a liar like Ser Jorah wanted her to believe, but she had called him to talk openly and thus she decided to be as forthcoming as possible.

“Do you want a cup of wine?” she asked him and forced a smile over her lips.

“I cup of wine would please me,” Jon Snow replied apprehensively and his eyes darted to her two handmaids seated next to the brazier. Irri was mending one of her dresses and Jhiqui was already retrieving the wine. Missandei was still reading, unbothered by Jon Snow’s appearance.

Satisfied with this answer, Dany shifted her attention back to Arstan, who was still lingering next to the entrance of the tent.

“Arstan will join us,“ she informed her nephew and angled her head to look at Jhiqui.

“Bring a third cup for him as well,” she asked of her handmaid and as always she was quick on her feet to fulfil her task.

By the time Jhiqui had poured the wine in their cups, Jon Snow had taken a seat on the cushioned seat opposite of her. Arstan was more hesitant, but eventually sat down near the brazier after Dany had graced him with an encouraging smile.

Sucking in a deep breath, she jerked her head at Arstan Whitebeard.

“Arstan knew your father Prince Rhaegar,” she informed Jon Snow and fingered her cup. “He told me how he became a warrior.”

It was only subtle, but a sudden change took hold of Jon Snow’s face.

He shifted in his seat, his dark eyes darting to Arstan.

“All I know about him is how he died, slain by Robert Baratheon.”

“Robert Baratheon was a fierce fighter and during the Battle of the Trident he supposedly turned into a demon. Even so, your father was a capable fighter. He simply overestimated his abilities and was defeated.”

“And lost the battle,” Jon Snow added and grimaced. “Which in turn led to the fall of the Targaryen dynasty…and the death of Princess Elia and my half-brother and half-sister. Forgive me, but I can’t bring myself to like him very much. His actions caused the death of thousands.”

“He is your father,” Dany couldn’t help but to remind him, her voice laced with sudden anger. “And it were the usurper dogs who caused this war, not my brother. Whatever failure he might have committed by enveloping with your mother, it was no reason to rebel against their rightful king, your own grandfather.”

Dany didn’t know why, but in the blink of a moment Jon Snow’s face had changed to an expression of complete shock.

He looked frozen, his mouth slightly agape as he stared back at her in utter disbelief.

“You don’t know?” he asked, his fingers curled around his still full cup. “You don’t know what King Aerys did to Rickard Stark and his son Brandon Stark?”

“Of course I know,” she replied defensively. She didn’t like the look he was giving her. It made her feel like a silly little girl. “Brandon Stark threatened Rhaegar’s life and was executed for treason and Lord Rickard, who dared to insult the dragon with his presence, followed him into his grave. My brother Viserys told me that this was the only fitting death for a traitor.”

Jon Snow seemed even more shocked by this answer, his face suddenly a shade paler.

“Gods,” he muttered to himself. “Gods be good…you really don’t know.”

“How dare you!” she couldn’t help but to snap at him. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” Jon Snow replied, his voice laced with a hint of guilt. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It is just…let me put this mildly. What your brother told you is not completely wrong, but the way he presented it is rather one-sided.

“What?” Dany asked and felt the urge to give him a piece of her mind, but then she recalled the many lies Viserys had given her over the course of their childhood.

 _Could he have lied about this too_ , she wondered and trembled.

She tightened her grip on her cup and sucked in a deep breath.

“Tell me,” she prodded and braced herself. “What did my brother neglect to tell me?”

“It is true, my Uncle Brandon did indeed threaten my father’s life, but he had reasons for his hot-headed behavior. He thought my mother raped and defiled. He feared for her life, which is why he dared to enter the dragon’s lair. And my grandfather Rickard Stark…he never insulted King Aerys. He went to King’s Landing to plead for his son’s life and asked for trial by combat, a right every high lord is entitled to. And King Aerys granted him such a trial, but his champion was not a man of the Kingsguard, his champion was fire. He burned Lord Rickard alive, before the very eyes of his assembled court and had my Uncle Brandon watch. My Uncle Brandon didn’t live much longer than that…he strangled himself to death by trying to reach for a sword that was mockingly placed before him. Mayhaps in his last moments he hoped to save his father. It were these actions that earned your father…and my grandfather…the name the Mad King, though only what came after this bloody incident would mark the beginning of the rebellion, namely the fact that King Aerys called for Robert Baratheon’s and my Uncle Eddard’s heads. They were not just fighting for the crown, but also fighting for their survival. Still, that doesn’t justify the murder of Princess Elia and my siblings or the fact that they drove you and your brother into exile…My Uncle Eddard must have believed that Robert Baratheon would make a good King and I never doubted his words until I saw King Robert with my own eyes. King Robert was nothing like my Uncle had described him…He was no King, but a fat drunkard….Then, when my _supposed_ father told me the truth…I couldn’t believe that he lied to me to protect this man’s crown. It felt as if he threw me away for Robert Baratheon…I would have never aspired to the crown had he simply told me the truth, but instead he lied to me and made me believe that I am the sole stain on his white vest. This was the greatest betrayal.”

Dany had listened in silence, her body growing tenser with every word spilling from his lips.

 _Lies_ , her heart cried in defiance. _Lies of the usurper dogs_ , but the way Jon Snow had spoken had sounded so honest, so straightforward. He was not lying, so much she could tell.

Whoever told him these lies, he certainly believed in them. And how could it be any different? He had been raised by one of these usurper dogs, a man who had lied to him his entire life.

“Who told you this tale?” Dany asked and searched his face. “Your treacherous Uncle?”

Jon Snow gave her a confused look.

“Everyone in Westeros knows this tale,” Jon Snow replied hesitatingly, his dark eyes darting to Arstan, who had observed their conversation in silence. “You are hailing from Westeros, aren’t you? You _must_ be familiar with this tale.”

Dany’s head snapped around, her eyes seeking Arstan’s benevolent gaze.

What she saw only helped to increase her doubts.

Arstan Whitebeard looked as if someone had poured a bucket of icy water over his head.

“I am familiar with this tale,” he confirmed, his lips trembling with emotions and his eyes glassy with tears. “Forgive me, for neglecting to tell you…I didn’t think it was my place to tell you these gruesome details without your approval.”

Dany shuddered, her gaze flickering back to Jon Snow.

She couldn’t speak, her mouth opening and closing, her head a whirl of chaos.

“Your grace,” Jon Snow said in a calming voice. “Mayhaps I should…,” he began, but Dany cut him off.

 _I am the blood of the dragon_ , she reminded herself. It hurt, but she wasn’t afraid of the truth, no matter how bitter.

“Viserys was always a fool,” Dany admitted and lifted her cup to her lips. She drank deeply, shivers running down her spine. “In the end he was also mad…so mad that he threatened my life and the life of my unborn son. That is why my husband gave him a golden crown.”

Tears burned in her eyes, Viserys’ pleading face fluttering before her eyes.

_He was my brother, my blood._

She shuddered gain, a terrible fear taking hold of her.

_The Mad King._

This was not the kind of title she wanted to be associated with.

_I will not be like him. Never._

“But he was my brother. I loved him, despite his failures,” she added and placed her cup back on the table. Then, she lifted her chin and met Jon Snow’s gaze, her old strength returning to her. “He protected me from the usurper’s sword, the very man your Uncle supported. I wonder if he was aware of the usurper’s actions? He was his Hand, wasn’t he?”

Jon Snow looked like slapped, but as before he didn’t deny the truth.

“What you say is true,” he admitted weakly. “My father supported King Robert and called him his friend. I will not deny his failures, but as much as I hate him for lying to me, he did protect me.”

“His good friend King Robert sent an assassin after me and my unborn child,” she couldn’t help but to give him the hard truth, trying to make him understand the hatred she held for the usurper and his Uncle. “You say that you wish to help me to crown, but are you also aware what this would mean? Do you think I will show mercy to your treacherous Uncle? Do you think I will forgive his involvement in this incident? I can forgive much, but not that.”

Jon Snow swallowed hard, but he didn’t flinch. And yet his speech seemed to fail him.

“Your grace…,” Arstan added, breaking the silence, but in the last moment he hesitated.

“What is it?” Dany asked softly. He looked very troubled and yet he shook his head and remained silent.

“Nothing, your grace. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she assured him and leaned over to touch his arm. “I value your council, Arstan. Speak if you have something to say.”

“Thank you, your grace,” he replied gratefully, his eyes still glassy as his gaze flickered to Jon Snow. “But Lord Eddard Stark won’t pose an obstacle on your way to the crown. As Jon Snow mentioned, he joined the Night’s Watch, forsaking all titles and lands. It is his son you must confront, not the father.”

“Robb is my bro…cousin,” Jon Snow added quickly. “I have no doubt that he hates the Lannisters just as much as you. Mayhaps I can convince him to support us…if you were inclined to show him mercy. Surely, you won’t blame a child for the actions of his father?”

Dany was taken back by these words. The pain over Rhaego’s loss had flared up when she had recalled this gruesome incident in Vaes Dothrak, though it hadn’t been the usurper’s swords that had killed her sweet babe.

“You have a point there,” Dany admitted. “And as much as it pains me to admit it…what you told me of my father terrifies me. It will take me a while to accept this, but I am not my father. I shall not harm your brother if he shows reason, but I shan’t show him mercy if he dares to fight me. This I can promise you. Are you still prepared to help me to the crown?”

“Aye,” Jon Snow replied. “But I do not know if Robb will listen. As I said…he might even attempt to take my head for my past actions.”

“I shall take _his_ head if he dares to harm you,” Dany promised. “If you are my nephew then you are my blood. No one shall dare to harm the blood of the dragon. This I can promise you too.”

Jon Snow looked stunned, a strange expression taking hold of his features. Whatever emotion it was, it helped to soften his sharp features.

“And I shall help you to the crown,” Jon Snow replied, a ghost of a smile curling on his lips. “But I don’t want to lie to you. It won’t be easy. Which is why winning over Robb would be better than to make him our enemy. The other rebel lords might follow his example. It is easier to catch flies with honey than with fire, your grace.”

“You want me to be merciful,” Dany said. “I understand what you are trying to say and I promise you. I shall show mercy to these rebel lords if they are prepared to see the error of their ways, but there are those who cannot be allowed to live. Tywin Lannister is one of these people, but as he is a common enemy of ours I doubt it will be much of hinderance. Can we agree on that?”

“Aye,” Jon Snow agreed hesitatingly, his face changing back to its usual unreadable expression. “Tywin Lannister murdered Princess Elia and her children. He deserves a faith worse than just death. I owe the Dornish his head to make up for my father’s failures.”

“And _we_ shall give it to them,” Dany replied with renewed determination. “And you shall have your reward as well. You will be pardoned and I shall raise you up to a position worthy of your birth. You said that there will be those who will call you a bastard, but their views are dust to me.”

“I only want to go home,” Jon Snow added almost softly and lifted his cup to his lips. He drank deeply and closed his eyes. He looked like a child that tasted a rare kind of candy.

“Have you never tasted wine?” she asked suddenly, for no reason other than curiosity. They had spoken about war and the future, but she still felt as if she knew nothing about him.

 _There will be more talks_ , she decided. _But even Valyria wasn’t built in one day_.

He nodded his head, a hint of a smile showing on his pale lips.

It suited him, but it was easy to see that he was not prone to smiling.

“Not such a fine wine,” Jon Snow admitted. “In the north we rarely drink wine. Mostly on feast days.”

“I see,” Dany replied, mildly amused by this sudden change of topic. “It’s Arbor Gold. The best wine in the Seven Kingdoms or so I was told. I salvaged three gallons from one of the Masters’ wine cellars. I suppose they have no need of them anymore.”

Surprisingly, Jon Snow chuckled.

“I suppose so,” he agreed and brushed his hair out of his face. “Speaking of the Masters…Why are you delaying the sacking of Yunkai? Are you hoping to take them off guard like you did in the previous battle?”

Dany was stunned by his question. She hadn’t told him all about her plans for the future, but now she felt there was no reason to withhold it from him.

“There will be no sacking. The Masters fulfilled their bargain by handing over the slaves. In exchange I promised them to leave the city be.”

Again, Jon Snow gave her this strange look that made her feel insecure.

“What is it?” she asked, straight to the point. “Do you disapprove of my plan? Earlier you said that I should show mercy to the rebel lords and now you are looking at me as if I lost my wits.”

“What I said I meant,” Jon Snow replied hesitatingly. “But these slavers are not the kind of people you should show mercy. They are rich and powerful. They can hire more sellsword companies to retake the slaves. I am no King nor have I ever commanded an army, but to leave them at peace is a mistake. Besides, if we take the city we could take their riches and food. Then, once you have taken Meereen you could install a man you trust to guard Yunkai against future enemies. I would also recommend taking hostages,” he continued to explain, getting carried away by his own words.

“I heard enough,” Dany cut him off. “And I understand your reasoning, but I have given a promise.”

Jon Snow’s eyes widened in surprise, a chuckle spilling from his lips.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because I do not understand you,” he admitted and searched her gaze. “They say you took Astapor by deception and the battle that was fought on the day before was also won through such ploys. Why do you suddenly care about these slavers?”

“I have no siege machines,” Dany countered.

“You have ten-thousand Unsullied and a forest. Simple siege machines can be built within a few days.”

“Yunkai has high walls.”

“Walls manned with spoiled Masters who have never fought a single battle. How long will the city stand? A week or two, not more than that. Besides, they won’t expect your attack…please, allow me to make another proposal.”

“I shall hear your proposal, but you have neglected to mention an important fact. The host of my freed slaves if ever growing. I cannot linger here longer or they might be harmed. I must foremost think of their safety. I promised them protection.”

“Of course,” Jon Snow agreed, a knowing smile curling on his lips. “And I never said you should linger here longer than necessary. What I propose is a different plan. Send your main host towards Meereen and have a smaller host sack Yunkai. It will be a pleasant surprise for the slavers. You should also ask a hand-picked number of slaves to return to Yunkai…They could pretend that they have abandoned you and help us to enter the city. Mayhaps they could even open the gates for us.”

Dany was taken back by his eagerness, but she knew him too little to trust him in this matter.

“And who do you think should be tasked with the sacking of Yunkai?”

“I will do it,” he proposed without hesitation, but Dany only saw the bandages hidden beneath his tunic.

If he truly was her blood she couldn’t endanger him.

“Ser Jorah will do it,” Dany proposed instead and graced Jon Snow with a smile. “You and Daario are more useful to me if you stay close.”

Jon Snow looked unhappy with this command, but he accepted it.

“I have one last advise for you, your grace.”

“Aunt,” Dany corrected him. _Mayhaps he will open up to me if I show him more familiarity_. “You may call me Aunt Daenerys. And I would be pleased to call you Jon.”

“Very well,” Jon corrected himself. “Well, Aunt Daenerys it is. My advice is simple. Keep away from Daario Naharis. His flattery may be charming, but you would be nothing more other than another pearl on his string of lovers. He once bragged to me that he has fucked every whore in the Free Cities. In your quest to the crown he would only be an obstacle. Nobody in Westeros would accept you without taking a husband of Westerosi blood. Keep your bed empty for a proper match. And if you must take a lover, choose someone discreet and not prone to sleep with whores. It is not safe, some of them carry diseases and many sellswords like Daario receive them by seeking out their beds. I respect Daario as a warrior, but he is neither discreet nor particularly careful when it comes to his bed companions.”

Dany had chided Ser Jorah for questioning her interest in Daario, but back then she had taken it for plain jealousy.

 _Could it be that Jon Snow is jealous like Ser Jorah_ , she wondered and searched his features for a sign of emotion, yet she found none.

_Nonsense. This supposed nephew of mine is as cold as ice…he must be an ice dragon._

“I shall head your warning,” Dany replied at last and not long after he left to seek out his companions, leaving only her and Arstan Whitebeard.

“What do you think of him?” she asked as she pulled her pelt of the hrakkar over her shoulders. The chill of the night made he feel cold or mayhaps that was only the result of the grizzly tale Jon Snow had told her. “Does he resemble my brother?”

“Not in looks, safe for the eyes,” Arstan replied softly. “But in character. He also shows a certain resemblance to another family member of yours.”

This roused her curiosity.

“Who does he resemble?”

Arstan smiled sweetly as if he was recalling an old memory.

“Prince Duncan, the Prince of Dragonflies.”

…


	4. Barristan the Bold

**Jon**

Meereen was much larger than Yunkai. Its walls were made of thick brick walls, but where Yunkai’s walls had been yellow, Meereen was made with bricks from of many different colors. The walls were higher too and in much better shape, studded with bastions and anchored with great defense towers. Behind these walls, he could see the Great Pyramid, a monstrous thing that seemed higher than the Wall, a towering bronze harpy sitting on its top.

  _The Harpy is a craven thing_ , Daario had said earlier before they had paid witness to Strong Balwas’ fight against the Champion of Meereen. _She has a woman’s heart and a chicken’s legs. Small wonder her sons hide behind their walls._

Jon had offered to fight in his stead, though he had known what a foolish idea that was. The arrow that had hit his shoulder in the last battle had gone deeper than expected. Now, whenever he moved his arm he felt a sharp pain, though he had been assured by the more experienced sellswords that this was natural.

 _You will always remember your first arrow_ , my boy, one of them had even jested.

Well, the champion of Meereen had been bested, but the walls stood strong and their host had only grown since they had left Yunkai behind them. True to her word, his Aunt had sent back a smaller host, about two-thousand Unsullied under the command of Ser Jorah, who was tasked to sack Yunkai, but that could take weeks and until then these freed slaves would have devoured each other.

That the Great Masters had burned everything they couldn’t harvest made the situation even more difficult. Scorched fields and poisoned wells had greeted them along the way, but the worst had not been the lack of food. Worst of all, the masters had nailed a slave child upon every milepost along the road from Yunkai, their entrails hanging out and one arm outstretched to point the way to Meereen.

It had been a grizzly sight, even for Jon, who had seen the work of a Dothraki first hand, but his Aunt had not taken it well.

She had been pale like a ghost, her teeth gritted like a dragon as she took in the children’s rotten corpses and had counted them each. Then, she had ordered the children to be taken down, a task that had occupied Jon and a dozen of his sellswords companions for hours.

The smell had been bad and sight even worse, but Jon had done plenty of such work before. Burying the dead was work for the younglings, to numb them against death and other unpleasant sights.

Yet this task had been different for him and he had drowned a whole cup of wine to drive the smell of death out of his nose. These had been children, some of them not older than Rickon or Bran. It made Jon wish that the three dragons were bigger and could burn the Great Masters like Balerion the Dread had done with King Harren.

“I must have this city,” his Aunt repeated for the third time that day, sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions, her dragons ever close. Viserion lay curled in her lap, Rhaegal was seated on her shoulder and Drogon  was rubbing his head against her shoulder. Occasionally, Rhaegal cocked his head to look at Jon. “Meereen’s granaries are full. There are figs and dates and olives growing on the terraces of the pyramids and casks of salted fish and smoked meat buried in her cellars. I need this food to feed my people, my children.”

“You forgot to mention the fat chests of gold, silver and gemstones,” Daario added enthusiastically. “Let us not forget about the gemstones.”

“The walls are too thick,” Jon remarked. He had spent several hours looking at them from the distance. “If we had the time might be able to breach them, but as you rightly said, we would starve before we achieved our goal.”

“Too thick?” his Aunt asked and lifted her head, her violet eyes meeting his. “Mayhaps we could attack from the river or the sea?”

Jon had not gone with the bloodriders who had scouted every piece of land around the city, but the idea had merit. Sadly, they had only three meagre ships at their disposal.

“I doubt that would be much use, unless we find a hole in the city walls,” Jon replied and received a frown.

“What if we were to build siege towers?” she asked in return.

“In Yunkai we had plenty of wood at our disposal,” Jon replied. “But here the masters burnt every tree within twenty leagues. I suppose we could send men to Yunkai, but that would take weeks…time we don’t have. Perhaps we should simply try to storm the gates.”

“Did you miss the bronze heads above the gates, boy?” asked Brown Ben Plumm, the leader of the Second Sons. “The defenders of this city can squirt boiling oil out of their mouths and cook us alive.”

Daario grinned and gave Grey Worm a sideway-glance. “Perhaps we could send the Unsullied out to fulfil this task. Boiling oil should feel like no more than a warm bath to you, shouldn’t it?”

“This is false,” Grey Worm replied stoically. “The Unsullied do not feel burns as common men do, yet such oil blinds and kills. The Unsullied do not fear death, though. Give us rams and we shall storm the gates.”

From someone else’s mouth it might have sounded like blatant bragging , but the Unsullied were not common men. _Cockless stonemen_ , Daario liked to call them mockingly, but Jon couldn’t help but to feel pity for them. They had been robbed of their humanity and had been turned into killing machines, though contrary to Daario’s believes there resided a human heart in each of these Unsullied. They might not be able to bed women, but that didn’t make them any less human. Even these stonemen must have some sort of dream beyond sacrificing themselves.

“I will not throw away your lives, Grey Worm,” his Aunt added with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t expected anything less. His Aunt had a hot temper, but she also held a great fondness to those loyal to her and it seemed the Unsullied were one of these people. _I am not. Perhaps in the distant future…_

“Perhaps we could starve out the city?” his Aunt asked then. It was the question of a girl who had never seen starving soldiers. Jon had and it was no pleasant experience.

“We would starve long before them. As you rightly said…There is no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. And the nearby river water doesn’t look any more pleasant. We must take the city as soon as possible. There is no other way.”

“Then what can we do?” his Aunt asked in obvious frustration.

“Storm the gates or find another entrance,” Jon offered. “Or convince someone to open the gates for us…the slaves come to mind, though I am not optimistic. As we could see with the children…the punishment for disobedience is a rather severe, which leaves us with storming the gates or finding another entrance. Does anyone among our host hail from this city? Is there any weakness? Most cities have one.”

“I know a way,” Brown Ben Plumm added surprisingly and stroked his speckled grey-and-white beard. “The sewers is what you are searching for, boy.”

“Sewers?” his Aunt asked, her eyes full of hope. She looked almost like Arya ,who had looked like this when Jon had promised to teach her archery. “What do you mean?”

“Great brick sewers empty into the Skahazadhan, carrying the city’s waste,” Brown Ben Plumm, explained without hesitation. “There might be a way in, for a few, but the smell is nasty. I dream of it sometimes.”

Jon grimaced at the thought, but it was better than to starve or to march all the way back to Yunkai. “The sewers empty into the river, you say?”

“And are closed with iron gates,” Brown Ben Plumm admitted. “But some have rusted through. Once inside, it is a long foul climb in a pitch-dark maze of brick. The filth is never lower than waist-high and can rise over your head from the stains…and there are things down there…monstrous rats.”

Daario laughed in amusement. “Monstrous rats? If any man were foolish enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.”

Daario’s answer didn’t surprise Jon. He was not the kind of man who would voluntarily wade through heaps of shit.

Ben Plumm grimaced. “The boy asked and I answered, but Ben Plumm is not going down the sewers again, not for all the gold in the Sunset Kingdoms.”

The bloodriders and Grey Worm tried to offer their services at once, but his Aunt raised her hand to silence them.

“These sewers do not sound promising,” was all she said and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Then, she swept her gaze over the assembled group of people. “I must think about this properly, before I make a decision. Please return to your duties.”

Jon was about to leave when his Aunt called after him.

“Not you, Jon,” she told him, Rhaegal still seated atop her shoulder, watching him. Her request surprised him, but he had to take what was offered to him. Thus, he whistled and called Ghost back to his side. His direwolf complied at once and lay back down on the carpet.

His Aunt had observed his wolf with great curiosity.

“What do you call him again?” she asked then and lay back on her cushions, her bells tinkling as she moved. “Direwolf? Are these wolves common in the north?”

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle as he sat down beside Ghost and stroked his ear.

“No, they are not common. Until I found Ghost and his brothers and sisters, direwolves were as uncommon south of the Wall as your dragons.”

“Brothers and sisters?” she asked.

“There are five of them,” Jon explained, recalling how he found them. It was a sweet memory. “Three male wolves and two female ones, one for each of my cousins. Mine was the runt of the litter. Ghost was the only pup with white fur and ruby eyes.”

“Your wolf looks rather special” his Aunt agreed and nibbled on a piece of nut she had taken from the bowl placed beside her. “He looks more Targaryen than you.”

Jon didn’t know what to make of her words. Was it meant as a jest or an insult?

“I was lucky then,” Jon replied and met her gaze. “For I don’t know what my Uncle would have done with me had I been born with silver hair and purple eyes.”

“A good point,” his Aunt replied. “After our caretake died, my brother and I had rarely spent a moon in the same place. We were always on the run, fearful of the usurper’s swords. You were lucky that you had a family and a roof over your head.”

“A father who lied to me and a step-mother who thought I would usurp my brother’s rights to Winterfell,” Jon countered, trying his best to calm the anger in his heart. “Aye, I was not on the run like you, but I was always reminded that I didn’t belong in this place that was supposed to be my home. I love my cousins like my siblings, but one needs more than just food and shelter to be happy. I was never truly happy there, which is why I wanted to join the Night’s Watch. My Uncle Benjen served there and I thought it was an honorable calling, a way to make up for my supposed father’s shame of fathering a bastard. Well, that was another lie, but I already told you that.”

“And is that why you came here?” she asked, her voice suddenly softer. “Did you think you would find your home here in Essos?”

“No,” Jon gave her the truth and grimaced. “I left because I couldn’t bear to look at my Uncle. When I arrived in Volantis I tried to drink and whore away my sorrows, but that was no use. Then, after I had returned to my senses I thought of finding you, but then I had no idea about your whereabouts. Thus, I joined the Stormcrows and spent the next year drowning myself in blood and shit. I didn’t expect that the Stormcrows of all people would lead me to Yunkai and to you. When I came before you I didn’t care if you believed me or not. I wouldn’t have even cared if you killed me. I have nothing to lose.”

Whatever she thought, his words must have stunned her, because she had remained silent for a long while before she finally spoke again.

“You still had a family. I only had my mad brother, who sold me like a whore,” she countered sadly. “But let’s not compare woe against woe. The past is in the past. What counts is the future. Tell me. What would you do if you were in my positon?”

Jon tried not to be surprised by her question. He hadn’t expected her to ask for his advice. It was something he had to get used to.

“You said it all,” Jon replied. “You must feed your host and it seems the sewers are our only chance. Not a pleasant task, but our only way forward. I could…,” he continued, but she cut him off.

“The blood of the dragon will not wade to through heaps of shit,” his Aunt reminded him. “You claim to be my nephew and you claim to be a dragon, but you act like a lowly bastard still.”

Jon was taken back by her words, but he understood what she was trying to say. Princes do not bath in shit.

“I understand,” he confirmed determinedly. “What will you decide?”

“I do not,” she replied honestly and lifted Rhaegal from her shoulders. He made a chirping sound, flapped his wings and suddenly soared towards Jon, who was completely taken off guard by the dragon’s action.

His Aunt laughed, her bells tinkling as she shook her head while Jon tried to lift the beast from his head.

The dragon’s body  felt hot like a brazier and he smelled of roasted meat.

“Rhaegal! Come here!” his Aunt called out to the dragon and finally the beast let go of him, slithering back into her embrace.

“He likes you,” his Aunt added. “But I think you already knew that.”

“It seems so,” Jon confirmed hesitatingly. “He certainly likes to surprise me.”

His Aunt giggled, silver locks spilling over her shoulder as she turned her head. She had a lovely smile, a smile rarely seen when she was playing the queen.

His Uncle had also rarely smiled, as if ruling Winterfell had been more a burden to him than a joy. Being Queen would pose an even harder task for his Aunt.

“Well, I have another surprise for you then,” she added jestingly and rose to her feet, calling Missandei to her side.

Barely a heartbeat later the young girl joined them.

“Missandei,” she told the girl with a gentle smile. “Have my silver saddled. I intend to ride out.”

The little girl bowed. “As Your Grace commands. Shall I summon your bloodriders to guard you?”

“No need,” she informed the little girl. “I will take my nephew and Arstan with me. I do not mean to leave the camps.”

Jon wanted to protest, but when she graced him with another smile he gave in.

“Very well,” Jon agreed and whistled, yet Ghost proved lazy. He yawned and rolled to the side.

“He seems tired,” Missandei pointed out the obvious conclusion. “You should allow him to rest.”

Jon sighed and left Ghost where he was, finding his own mount.

 When he returned, Arstan had long joined his Aunt, his white beard billowing in the wind like a white shroud. And despite his age he seemed fit and agile, though Jon had yet to see him swing a sword.

When the horses had been saddled, they left the city behind them, riding along the shoreline, the stakes and pits that surrounded the camp of the Unsullied greeting them as they passed. Jon watched as Grey Worm and his Unsullied were running a company through a series of drills with shield, short sword and a heavy spear. Another company was bathing in the sea, clad only in their breechclouts. The Unsullied were cleaner than the sellswords’ in his Aunt’s employ, so much was true. They bathed each evening, even if they had marched all day. And when no water was available they cleaned themselves with sand.

The men knelt as his Aunt passed, raising their fists. Not far from their position he could see the three ships his Aunt had been gifted by a magister from Pentos, each ship named after one of King Aegon’s fabled dragons.

The camp of the freed slaves proved much more chaotic. They had been armed with weapons from Astapor and Yunkai and Ser Jorah had organized the fighting men into four strong companies, yet they looked lost and aimless.

Jon had searched for a task and it seemed he had found one, least until the grim old bear returned. Jon doubted he would entrust him with four companies.

“I could train them, until Ser Jorah returns,” Jon offered as he searched his Aunt’s face. “I am still hurt, but training them does not mean I have to lift a sword.”

His Aunt gave him a doubtful look.

“You know how to train recruits?”

“I trained my brothers of the Night’s Watch, most of them more hopeless than these men and later I did the same while serving the Stormcrows. I am no Grey Worm, but putting them through drills will help wonders for their discipline and moral.”

“A good idea,” Arstan added his voice. “And I would be pleased to offer my services as well. I am only an old squire, but it is better than nothing.”

“Very well,” his Aunt replied at last. “You may train the freedmen until Ser Jorah returns.”

Jon couldn’t help but to smile. He had finally found a purpose, a way to be useful.

“I shall train them well,” he promised and urged his horse onwards, after her. _They can’t be worse than Sam._

His Aunt nodded her head and did the same, her eyes flickering to a horde of children, running after their horses. The freedmen spoke in many different tongues, but one word was repeated more than once.

_Mother. Myhsa. The Mother of Dragons._

His Aunt seemed to like this title more than the many others she had acquired, though she was no mother herself, at least not to a human child. Jon knew that she had been with child once, but hadn’t dared to ask her what had happened to said child.

And yet he couldn’t help but to notice the sad smile crossing her lips as she was presented with a newborn babe. Jon hadn’t heard the whole exchange, but when his Aunt turned around to glimpse at a tall, ragged man with a shaved head and a sunburnt face, he grew vary suspicious. There was something about the man that rubbed him the wrong way, especially his glinting green eyes, filled with anger.

“Not so hard,” he heard his Aunt whisper, before the man had yanked her from the saddle, throwing her on the ground. His Aunt’s white mare whinnied and Jon slipped his blade free, parrying the man’s blow, before he was able to bring down his blade.

“Fuck off boy!” the man snarled, sliding his blade against Jon’s. “I only want the whore!”

Jon gritted his teeth, a sharp pain running down his shoulder.

“I have no time for this!” the man snarled again, and swung his blade, aiming at Jon’s right side. He was able to evade the blow and aimed for his enemy’s head, but his shoulder was not yet as strong as he wanted. The man parried the blow, making the metal sing. “Fuck you!”

A quick strike followed, aiming at Jon’s weaker side. He parried the blow, a painful gasp escaping his lips as he stumbled backwards.

The enemy gave him no reprieve, bombarding him with a quick succession of blows . He managed to parry each, but every blow was more painful than the next.

“Are you not done yet, boy?” he asked and bared his yellow teeth. Jon’s breathing had grown labored, sweat running down his temples. “Or do you want more?”

“I always want more,” Jon taunted. “But not from an ugly whore like you!”

The man snarled and slashed his sword at Jon’s head.

Jon parried the savage blow, nearly knocking the air out of him. Only the pain was worse, making him shudder from head to toe.

As he stumbled backwards, he evaded another blow, but this time he barely managed to lift his blade. The pain was too strong.

He evaded another blow and then another. Their dance would have continued forever, but Arstan’s wooden staff smashing into the man’s head put an end to the fight, sending him sprawling to the ground and blood bubbling from his mouth.

As Arstan pulled Jon along, he watched how the freedmen washed over the man, knives and fists rising and falling in bouts of rage.

“You did well, but an arrow needs proper healing.”

Jon pulled his hand away, annoyed and impressed by the old man’s performance.

 _Something is rotten here_ , he realized, but kept these thoughts to himself. _A man with such abilities couldn’t be a mere squire._

“I will do that, Arstan,” Jon replied instead and searched for his Aunt.

She looked unharmed, Missandei clinging to her arm.

“Your Grace,” Arstan said and knelt before her. Jon sheathed his blade and rubbed his shoulder. “I am an old man and shamed. He should have never gotten close enough to harm you. I was too lax. I did not know him without his beard and hair.”

Jon hadn’t recognized him either, but then he had only met the Titan’s Bastard once. It was an honest mistake.

“No more than I did,” his Aunt replied in a trembling voice and searched Jon’s gaze. “Thank you as well.”

“It was no bother,” Jon assured her quickly. “You are my Aunt.” _And my only way to go home_ , he should have added truthfully, but kept this to himself.

“And you are my nephew,” she replied hesitatingly and shifted her attention back to Arstan.

“Take me back to my tent. I have seen enough for today.”

By the time Jon had settled his horse he found his Aunt huddled in her white lion pelt, a cup of wine in hand.

Arstan was also there. Ser Arstan it should be or perhaps he was already a Ser and had simply omitted this truth.

“Here,” his Aunt offered and pointed at Jhiqui, who handed him a cup of wine.

“Drink. It will help against the pain,” she told him, her violet eyes darting to his bandaged shoulder. “You should have someone take a look at it. Missandei will do it later.”

“Missandei is welcome to do so,” he replied politely and sat down, his cup heavier than it should feel.

The taste was sweet, but there was something he needed to do.

“May I ask you a personal question, Arstan?” he asked the old man.

“Of course,” the old man confirmed, a smile curling on his lips. He had always been kind to Jon, but kindness could be very well be a mask to hide one’s true intentions. “What do you want to know?”

“How can a mere squire defeat a man with a wooden stick? Why was a man with abilities like yours not knighted?”

It was only subtle, but Jon saw the hesitation in his bearing. He was hiding something.

“The opportunity never presented itself.”

“Well, you shall be a knight once Ser Jorah returns,” his Aunt added in amusement, oblivious to Jon’s real intentions.

“I am serious, Daenerys,” Jon insisted and flashed the old man a distrustful look. “Arstan Whitebeard? That is obviously not your true name. Who are you and what do you want?”

The old man frowned, then smiled. It was a smile full of regret and pain.

“I am indeed a knight,” he replied and dropped to one knee. “I squired for Lord Swann in my youth and at Magister Illyrio’s behest I have served Strong Belwas. But before that, I was a knight in Westeros. I have told no lies, yet there are truths I have withheld and for that and all my other sins I can only humbly beg for forgiveness.”

Daenerys’ smile faded.

“What truth have you withheld?” she demanded to know. “You will tell me…now.”

The old man lowered his head as if a heavy weight had been lifted on his shoulders.

“At Qarth, when you asked my name, I said I was called Arstan, so much was true. Many men had called me by that name while Belwas and I were travelling together. But it was not my true name.”

For Jon his words meant nothing, but he must be someone who had known his father’s family. How else would he know all these stories he had been relaying to his Aunt?

“Who are you?” Jon asked again.

The old man dropped his head further as if Jon had defeated him with a blink of his eye.

“I am Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Jon nearly dropped his cup, but managed to catch it. His Aunt seemed equally shocked, but there were more emotions written on her face. There were anger and pain, mixed with sadness.

Jon knew why. Ser Barristan Selmy had once served her family, but had bent the knee to Robert Baratheon to save his life.

It was the reasonable thing to do, but for his Aunt it must feel like an act of betrayal, for a man of the Kingsguard was sworn to die for his King.

And yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to fault him for it.

_I am not any better than him. I broke my vow and abandoned my brothers._

“Why are you here?” his Aunt demanded to know, her voice hard and cold. “If you serve the usurper, why did you save my nephew’s life? I want the whole truth, on your honor as a knight. Are you the usurper’s man?”

Hope washed over the old man’s face.

“Yours if you will have me,” Ser Barristan replied, tears glittering in his eyes. It made it even harder to hate him. “Aye, I took Robert’s pardon. I served in his Kingsguard and council. I served with the Kingslayer and others who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will ever excuse that, I know that. I might still be serving in King’s Landing if the vile boy seated upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside. But when he took that cloak that the White Bull had draped around my shoulders and sent men to kill me, it was as if someone had opened my eyes to the truth. That was when I knew I must find my true King…,” he continued, his gaze flickering from Daenerys to Jon and then back to Daenerys.

“I am no King,” Jon told him. “How much would a second marriage count? Nothing. Daenerys is our best chance to reclaim the throne.”

If Ser Barristan was disappointed by his answer it didn’t show on his face.

He even smiled. “You are Prince Rhaegar’s son. Many loved him and many love him still. You are too humble.”

“I am far from humble, good Ser,” Jon replied stiffly.

“A humble man would not have cast aside his honor and broke his vow to the Night’s Watch. A humble man wouldn’t have abandoned his brothers,” he continued and glanced over to his Aunt. “But that is not the real reason for my refusal. I cannot guarantee that my cousin will support us, but there is another kingdom who suffered the greatest loss during the rebellion….Dorne. They would hold not love for Rhaegar’s second son, but they would hold no grudge against his sister. Lord Stark always told me that the Dornish are the kind of people who never forget a slight and their history proves that. Besides, Dorne is rich and well-protected. It would be the best place to land an army. Not even the Lannisters would be able to touch us without suffering considerable losses. Then, we could move up the Stormlands and towards King’s Landing, to cut off the lion’s head. It would be the best and fastest way to secure a victory…,” Jon continued, but stopped abruptly when he noticed his Aunt’s stare. She looked angry and very sad, her slender from trembling.

“I apologize,” he said quickly and gave his Aunt an encouraging smile. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“No need,” his Aunt assured him, her voice taking a harder tone as she searched Ser Barristan’s face.

“You lied to me,” she said. “And you betrayed my brother. You knelt before the usurper and sat at his council while my Viserys and I were begging on the streets. I should have your head…Viserys would have taken your head.”

“And I would humbly accept my punishment,” Ser Barristan replied and lowered his gaze to the ground.

“And yet you saved me,” she added angrily, her gaze flickering back to Jon. “And my nephew. I should give you a traitor’s death, but it shouldn’t be my decision alone.”

Jon swallowed hard, his gaze flickering from Daenerys to the old knight Bran had admired so much.

The answer was simple, at least for Jon.

“Pardon him. Actions speak louder than past failures. He had numerous opportunities to kill you and he didn’t. More importantly, it will help you gain allies once you return to Westeros. The Targaryen loyalists will see it as a sign that Ser Barristan the Bold returned to his old loyalties.”

Daenerys looked displeased and sucked in a deep breath.

“I won’t kill you,” she declared at last, her voice laced with pain. “And I will give you a chance to prove your loyalty. Give me Meereen and I shall rethink your fate.”

To his credit, Ser Barristan the Bold did not flinch away from his fate.

“I shall do as you ask, your Grace, but first I must inform you about another traitor amongst your midst.”

His Aunt gasped.

“Who?”

“Ser Jorah Mormont.”

…

 


	5. Trust and Betrayal

**Jon**

Jon watched the dragons chase each other, the Great Pyramid of Meereen looming above his head. From up here he was able to see the entire city. It made him feel taller than he was.

Much like Yunkai, Meereen consisted of a maze of twisted alleys, brick streets, temples, hovels, palaces, brothels, baths, gardens and fountains and the great red circles of the fighting pits. And yet the city was much bigger than Yunkai, the pride of Slaver’s Bay.

Not long ago, Meereen was in the hands of those that had toiled day and night to serve the masters, but now they had made the city their own.

“I have never seen such a high building,” his Aunt remarked as her deep violet eyes watched the dragons and nibbled on piece of peach. Despite the smile playing on her lips she made a sad impression.

Jon knew why. Ser Barristan’s lies had hit her hard and after the old knight had revealed Ser Jorah’s betrayal, she had locked herself up in in company of her handmaids and had refused to speak for a whole day.

Jon had also been shocked. His young self would have killed to meet Ser Barristan Selmy, but now he felt apprehension, though he was glad the old knight had survived his expedition through the sewers. Whatever past failures Ser Barristan had committed, having him at her side would help his Aunt’s cause more than she could know. Ser Jorah, however, was a different matter. Pardoning him might not sit well with the Lords of the North, but then Robb might just ask for Jon’s head as well the moment he returned to Westeros. Jon had no doubt that Lady Stark would remind Robb of his as Lord of Winterfell.

“It is impressive,” Jon replied and took a bite from his peach. It tasted fresh and sweet, the best food he had tasted since joining the Stormcrows. “But you wouldn’t be as impressed if you knew the Wall.”

“When we go home,” his Aunt said and smiled warily. “I want to see everything, especially this Wall.”

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle. “You would be the second Targaryen Queen to visit the Wall. The first one was Queen Alysanne. She flew there on her dragon.”

His Aunt graced him with a knowing smile. “My brother told me about her, but I forgot most of it. Ser Jor…,” she continued, but stopped abruptly. “I owe books about Targaryen history, but I have never had much time to read them. I am sure there is a part about Queen Alysanne.”

“I don’t remember all of it,” Jon added and watched as Ghost rolled on the other side. Jhiqui and Irri had brought him bones and now he was sated and happy. “But the Northmen remember her fondly, especially the women. She abolished the right of the first night.”

“Right of the first night?” his Aunt asked. “What did this right entail?”

“That a lord or a king would be allowed to bed the bride before her husband,” Jon explained and realized that he had said too much when he noticed his Aunt’s grimace.

“I apologize…,” he was about to apologize, but his Aunt waved her hand to silence him.

“No need, but Viserys mentioned something similar when he wanted to crawl into my bed on the night before my wedding to Khal Drogo. I see, that’s where he got the idea from.”

Jon shuddered at that. The practice of brother-sister-marriages had always mystified him. He tried to imagine wedding Arya or Sansa and felt only disgust.

His Aunt must have noticed his discomfort, because her gaze softened a little.

“He didn’t manage to do it. Magister Illyrio had placed guards at my door and Viserys was gently returned to his own chambers.”

Jon couldn’t quite understand why she thought that would make him feel better.

“Your brother still sold you to this Khal Drogo,” Jon countered hesitatingly and took a sip from his cup. His past encounters with the Dothraki hadn’t painted a positive picture of them, though the Dothraki in his Aunt’s employ knew how to behave themselves. It was clear to him that she had made them her own. “Most people in Westeros would consider them barbarians, not unlike the Northmen think of the Wildlings. They rape, pillage and earn their living by enslaving their victims. Why did you brother think it was a good idea to marry you to one of them? Did he really believe that would be enough to re-take the crown?”

His Aunt gave him a wary look.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked and leaned over to pick a nut from the nearby bowl. “My husband commanded a khalasar of forty-thousand Dothraki screamers. Viserys was a fool, but Drogo would have given me the crown of the Seven Kingdoms had he lived long enough to do so.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. She had spoken with so much conviction and it made him realize again how little she knew about Westeros.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked and wrinkled her brows in confusion. “You are making this face again.”

Jon chuckled, trying to overplay his discomfort.

“This face?” he asked instead.

“Aye,” she replied. “This face you always make when you disagree me. Tell me…what bothers you about the Dothraki? I admit…their traditions are bloody, but they are good fighters. Magister Illyrio told my brother that even your knights would flee from a Dothraki horde.”

“The peasants armed with sticks and spears might flee,” Jon replied after he had carefully pondered his answer. “But your Dothraki would stand no chance against a well-trained army of foot soldiers, armed with spears and pikes. And they would be even more useless against longbows and crossbows. They would kill your Dothraki screamers before they got even close to their enemy. Most knights in Westeros wear heavy armor, but the Dothraki are almost bare when they face battle. However, their greatest disadvantage is their bad reputation. This Magister must have taken your brother for a fool. Bringing Dothraki to Westeros would have brought your brother more enemies than friends. Even your former allies might have joined King Robert’s banner to protect their home against an army of barbarians. The Unsullied and your sellswords will serve you much more in retaking the Seven Kingdoms than a horde of Dothraki ever could.”

His Aunt’s face had grown paler with every word spilling from his mouth, but only now after he had finished speaking did he realized how upset she looked.

“That can’t be true,” she insisted, a stubborn look taking hold of her features. “Magister Illyrio wouldn’t have lied to my brother in such a vile manner. He harbored us for a whole year…he protected us from the usurper’s swords.”

“And why would I lie about that?” Jon asked and met her gaze. “I am not saying that this Magister is a liar, but he certainly is a fool if he thought that bringing a horde of Dothraki to Westeros would bring your brother a crown. That is all.”

He had hoped his explanation would ease her obvious displeasure, but the way she gritted her teeth told him otherwise.

“Then my sacrifice was all for nothing…,” she muttered to herself, picked up the cup and drowned it in one go. She trembled and averted her gaze, her violet eyes darting to the dragons. “Not all of it…I still have my children.”

Jon didn’t know what to make of her words, but remained silent. Instead he shifted his attention to Missandei, who brought a scented candle meant to drive away the flies and mosquitos.

His Aunt was very fond of the girl and it was not hard to understand why. There was something endearing about her.

 _She is Arya’s age_ , Jon recalled and grew sad. He missed his little sister the most.

“Missandei,” his Aunt said once the little girl had lightened the candle. “Come, help me dress.”

Then, his Aunt turned to look at Jon. She looked still upset, but remained polite.

“I shall return soon,” she told him rather coldly. “Join me later.”

Jon nodded his head in understanding and wanted to slap himself.

_I should have chosen my words more wisely._

When he joined her later, she was garbed in a robe of purple samite and a silver sash. On her head rested the grown she had worn on their first meeting, a gift by the Tourmaline Brotherhood of Qarth.

 _To mock me_ , she had told him. _But it is a beautiful crown._ _That’s why I keep it. It makes me look like a Queen._

To Jon she still looked more like a girl than a Queen or Conqueror, though she had taken Meereen with deception and wooden rams built from Admiral Groleo’s ships.

This ploy had been his Aunt’s idea alone, but in truth it had been the slaves of the city who had brought the final victory after Ser Barristan’s sewer rats had cut off their chains.

Jon wished he had been there to fight, but then he had also taken to heart what his Aunt had told him.

_The blood of the dragon does not wade through heaps of shit._

It hadn’t been the first time she had kept him out of the fighting, but he had at least hoped to lead the freedmen into battle since he had been training them over the last days.

Truly, it had felt like a hollow victory to him when they had entered the city.

He understood why his Aunt had not trusted him to lead the freedmen into battle, but it had made him feel utterly useless.

Sitting by while others were fighting was not in his nature, though he supposed he would have to get used to this life unless he was able to win his Aunt’s trust.

 _Ser Jorah will make sure that she doesn’t_ , Jon knew, but reminded himself of the truth Ser Barristan had given his Aunt before his departure, namely that Ser Jorah was a traitor working for King Robert.

And yet, Jon was not sure if his Aunt might not forgive him after all. He seemed dear to her heart while Jon was only a stranger to her.

It was a cruel thought, but Jorah not only stood in the way of his Aunt’s ascension to the crown, but also in Jon’s way to win her trust.

 _He mustn’t be pardoned_ , Jon realized then. _He must die or leave. That is the only way._

Thus, Jon emptied his cup and took Ghost for a walk along the plaza of the Great Pyramid, where his Aunt had nailed one-hundred and sixty-three of the Great Masters of the city to repay them for the murder of the slave children.

They had been stripped of their jewels and their fringed tokars. Then, they had died a gruesome death, full off painful moans and bloody bowels, but even so, Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel pity for them. Mayhaps it had been the sight of the dead children that had numbed him against such feelings.

And mayhaps that was good.

Essos was not Westeros. Sharpened swords and blood were the only words the people of these lands understood. Honor and mercy wouldn’t serve them here, so much Jon had learned in his time as a sellsword.

Brushing these thoughts away he returned to his chambers and changed the linen bindings wrapped around his shoulder. It would take another moon before the wound would be fully healed, but that was the danger of war. One could never be sure to live to the next day. His father had learned this when he had faced Robert Baratheon at the Trident.

 _I must be careful. I owe so much to my mother_ , he knew and re-fastened the black cloak around his shoulders. It felt strange to wear this garment, but it had been a gift from his Aunt for defending her life.

He fingered the soft wool and took a glance at the three-headed dragon embellished on the back. It was beautiful to behold. Truly, Jhiqui and Irri had done their best.

 _I must thank them_ , he reminded himself and took his leave from Ghost.

Jon found his Aunt in the large audience chamber made of purple marble.

There had once been a throne gracing these halls, made of gilded wood and wrought in the form of a savage harpy.

His Aunt hadn’t hesitated to get rid of it and was now seated on an ebony bench.

Jon had never seen the Iron Throne, but from what he had heard about it must be a rather uncomfortable chair.

As expected, his Aunt was not alone. There were her bloodriders, their bells tinkling as they moved. They had also covered themselves in the gold and jewels that had once belonged to the Masters of Meereen. The sellswords had followed their example, Daario and Ben Plumm among them. Jon had taken coin and jewels for himself, in preparations for harder times, but the idea of bedecking himself in spoils of war had never entered to his mind until Daario brought it up.

 _I am no woman_ , he had returned when he saw the rings Daario wore around his neck. _Leave me out of this._

Daario had laughed and had called him green boy, but by now Jon had stopped caring about his japes, though he wondered whether his Aunt had taken his advice to heart.

He had seen Daario flutter around her with a bundle of flowers, but he had never seen him slip into her tent.

“Was the night as quiet as it seemed?” his Aunt asked Brown Ben Plumm.

“All is well, your Grace,” Ben Plumm assured her with a smile.

Jon liked him. He was a serious man and did what was asked of him. His accomplishments also spoke for him. He had been successful in fulfilling his Aunt’s decrees against rape, looting and murder, though Jon had a hard time understanding how they were able to differentiate between the enemy and their own people. Many a slave had committed murder that night and he had no doubt that plenty of rapes had been committed as well.

The peace won’t last long, Jon knew and watched as his Aunt tried to drive away the flies and mosquitos.

“There are also too many flies and mosquitos in this city. Can you get rid of them too?”

Ben Plumm barked with laughter. “There were flies and mosquitos in my ale this morning. I swallowed plenty of them.”

“They are the dead man’s revenge,” Daario jested and stroked his beard. “That’s the way of the world, my friends.”

“Then we should rid ourselves of the corpses,” his Aunt added with a smile and waved her hand at Grey Worm.

“You will take care of it, won’t you?”

“This one shall do as his queen commands,” Grey Worm replied dutifully ever.

“But that won’t get rid of the mosquitos,” Jon added and filled his cup. It was sweet juice mixed with honey. “There is only one effective counter-measure for mosquitos. Garlic paste.”

“Garlic?” his Aunt asked in disbelief. “You are fooling me?”

Jon chuckled and took a sip from his cup.

“On the contrary. The crannogmen swear on it and they are usually drowning in swarms of mosquitos.”

“Crannogmen,” his Aunt repeated. “Who are they?”

“They live in the Neck. Some in the North like to call them bogmen, but they are fierce fighters and very agile, despite their small height. Most of them are barely taller than children. Some say they have the blood of the Children of the Forest.”

“Sounds like a bunch of horseshit to me, your grace,” Daario chimed in. “How can a bunch of dwarfs be dangerous?”

“They are not dwarfs,” Jon corrected him. “And they know ways to make up for their disadvantage in battle. They use poisoned arrows and know how disappear in any landscape. They are also excellent in hiding their trails from their enemies. Most men die before they manage to put their blade into a crannogman.”

“Well, then I ask you to introduce them to me, green boy,” Daario bragged and placed a ripe grape into his mouth. “I will show them how quick a dwarf can die.”

“They are not dwarfs,” Jon reminded him mockingly. “And they would cut off your cock for mocking them in such a vile manner.“

Daario howled with laughter.

“Well, that would be no surprise to me. A cock merchant once offered me a hefty price for my best piece. I refused of course, but it earned me many compliments.”

“Kala would agree,” Jon told his Aunt, who had observed their exchange in silence. “She swore that Daario’s piece was the biggest cock she had ever laid eyes on.”

His Aunt chuckled drily. Other girls would have blushed, but she seemed unbothered by this vile talk.

“What happened to this Kala? Did she survive Daario’s cock?”

“She did,” Daario added proudly. “But she wasn’t able to walk for nearly a week.”

“Well, I heard from one of the other girls that she died from the pox not long after she had enjoyed Daario’s company,” Jon added and searched his Aunt’s gaze. “It’s an unpleasant death or so I heard.”

He knew his words had been fruitful when he saw his Aunt’s frown.

And if everything went well this would keep Daario away from her bed.

Not long after, the first petitioner presented himself. It was an envoy from Astapor.

The man that came before them was a pale ferret-faced man with ropes of pearls and spun-gold hanging around his neck.

“Your Worship!” he greeted his Aunt and dipped his head. “My name is Ghael. I bring greetings to the Mother of Dragons from King Cleon of Astapor, Cleon the Great.”

His Aunt froze.

“But I left a council to rule in Astapor. A healer, a scholar and a priest.”

“Your Worship, those sly rogues have betrayed your trust. Soon after your departure, it was revealed that they were scheming to restore the Good Masters to power. Great Cleon exposed their plots and hacked their heads off with a cleaver. For his grand deed the grateful folk of Astapor crowned him their King.”

“Noble Ghael,” Missandei added and wrinkled her dark brows in confusion. “Is this the same Cleon once owned by Grazdan mo Ullhor?”

“The same,” the man replied in obvious discomfort. “A great man.”

“He was a butcher in Grazdan’s kitchen,” Missandei explained then. “It was said that he could slaughter a pig faster than any man in Astapor.”

His Aunt winced, but Jon couldn’t help but to note the irony.

_A butcher turned king. Well, I am a bastard turned prince. The world is a strange place._

His Aunt gritted her teeth and forced a smile over her lips.

“I shall pray that King Cleon rules well and wisely. What does he want?”

Ghael smiled then. “Perhaps we could speak alone, your Worship?”

“I have no secrets from my advisors.”

“As you wish,” he replied unhappily and lowered his gaze. “Great Cleon bids me to declare his devotion to the Mother of Dragons. Your enemies are his enemies.:.He offers to seal your allegiance with a pact of marriage.”

“Marriage?” his Aunt asked and Jon had a hard time not to break out in laughter.

The fool named Ghael smiled and Missandei came to rescue.

“Does Great Cleos have sons?”

The fool’s smile faded at once. “Great Cleon has three daughters by his first wife and two of his newer wives are with child, but he is willing to put them aside for the Mother of Dragons.”

And despite this prosperous offer, his Aunt remained calm.

“How noble of him,” she said and smiled sweetly. “I will consider his offer.”

Then, she ordered that their guest be given chambers for the night and not long after she called the second petitioner to her. It was a Qartheen captain, who gave them even grimmer news. According to him, Astapor was bleeding and the butcher King started to turn the children of the city into Unsullied.

Jon was not surprised. Men who had suffered under others could easily turn into monsters when they were given the chance to do so.

This butcher king was the best example for it.

His Aunt trembled and Jon felt the urge to speak out, but he knew better than that. He had defended her queenship in front of Ser Barristan and now he had to stand by his word. A Queen shouldn’t be questioned in front of her subjects, not even by her own nephew.

He would give her his thoughts later, though he doubted she would like to hear them.

“What do you want of me, Captain?” she asked the man.

“Slaves,” the man answered. “My holds are bursting with ivory, zorse hides and other fine goods. I would trade them from slaves of the city, to sell them in Lys and Volantis.”

“We have no slaves to sell,” his Aunt replied, her voice laced with displeasure.

“May I speak?” Daario asked then. “The riverside is full of freedmen, begging leave to sell themselves to this man.”

Jon wasn’t surprised by this either, but he felt the urge to slap Daario for his comment.

He had just undermined his Aunt’s cause with one ill-put question.

The shock was palpable on her face.

“They want to be slaves?”

“These are learned ones and gently born. Such slaves bring a high price. In the Free Cities they will be tutors, scribes, bed slaves, even healers and priests. Here they have lost all and live in fear, a life they are not used to.”

“I see,” his Aunt said, her mind working as quick as an arrow, though he was surprised by her decision. “Any man or woman who wishes to sell themselves into slavery may do, but they may not sell their children nor a man his wife.”

It was a reasonable decision, though it would certainly undermine her cause. And yet they could hardly feed all these people. For the time being, they would have to bite in the sour apple.

Besides, there were plenty of other freedmen left, used to hard labor. They wouldn’t balk at tending to the fields, though they first had to take hold of the mansions in the countryside and the lands that belonged to them.

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei added.

His Aunt nodded approvingly.

“We will do the same,” his Aunt decided. “A tenth part in gold or silver or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron and zorse hides.”

“It shall be done as you command, oh glorious queen!” Daario chirped and rubbed his hands.

 _He planned this_ , Jon realized then and wanted to slap himself. _I should have seen through this._

“May I make a suggestion, your grace?” Jon added quickly and broke his silence.

His Aunt gave a nod. “You may speak.”

“I do not think the Stormcrows are the right men to see to this task. Give me a score of Unsullied to enforce your commands. I served as an apprentice to the paymaster and I know my sums better than most men. I will make sure everything goes according to order.

His Aunt pondered his suggestion, before giving her answer.

“But you are already training the freedmen?”

“I can do both.”

Surprisingly, his Aunt didn’t refuse.

“It is decided. I shall entrust this ask to you.”

“And I shall not disappoint you.”

Once everything was said and done, his Aunt dismissed everyone apart from Jon.

She looked weary as if the dark tidings she had received earlier had drained her strength.

“Everything is falling apart. Astapor is in ruins and I am no better than the masters,” she told Jon, allowing him a glimpse into her mind.

This surprised him, but he supposed she had no other choice.

She had yet to see Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah was still fighting in Yunkai. It would be weeks before he returned to Meereen.

“Nothing is lost,” Jon assured her. “The matter with the wellborn slaves is regrettable, but Daario is not wrong. They are a burden. Besides, they were not the ones that suffered under the masters. It were the working slaves who suffered the most and these men and woman you can put to good work. Sent the Unsullied into the countryside to take hold of the masters’ lands and gift them to the freedmen. It will take time and effort, but one day they will be able to stand on their own feed. Freeing them was kind, but it is no use to give them freedom unless you can feed them, though I am sure you now that. That said, I think you should also choose the most qualified among the well-born to serve in governing positions once held by the masters.”

His Aunt nodded her head, though it seemed something bothered her about his council.

“I have already spilled enough blood. I have hoped to make peace with the remaining masters.”

“Peace?” he asked in disbelief. “You think you can make peace with them?”

His Aunt’s eyes widened.

“Why not? The battle is done. Meereen is ours and Yunkai will be as well…there is no need to continue fighting. Soon we can leave…we can go home.”

“This is only the beginning,” Jon countered. “Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, Volantis…these cities will not like what you did and they will try to put the masters back into power. Do not think yourself safe, Daenerys. The only way to keep that from happening is to make them fear you and best way to do that is to take their lands, their wealth and their children.”

“My dragons are small,” she countered wearily. “Why should they fear them?”

“Not forever and once they are big enough you won’t have need of Unsullied or sellswords, but until then you must be cruel and decisive. One act of weakness…,” he continued, but his Aunt cut him off.

“I am not weak!” she snapped at him. “I have survived the Red Waste. I have conquered Astapor without your help. Do not act as if you know everything better than I.”

“You are right,” Jon granted her. “I haven’t conquered Astapor, but now that you have lost it to the butcher king I recommend re-taking it as soon as possible. This fool undermines your cause and could pose a danger. Let me…” he continued, but his Aunt silenced him with a shake of his head.

“How much more do you want me to give you, nephew?” she asked mistrustfully, her voice laced bitterness. “I have already given you two tasks. What will you ask for next? My Unsullied? My dragons? The claim you have so graciously left to me.”

Jon didn’t know why, but hearing her speak of his claim made him laugh.

“What claim?” he asked bitterly. “As you rightly said…I do not even look like a Targaryen. Who is going to believe me? An oathbreaker without a home or family. I told you already why I came here and I understand that you hold distrust for me, but I have never once lied to you and yet you accuse me of stealing something that is not even mine to take. If you do not want me here I can leave at any moment. I am sure Ser Jorah will be pleased to hear it.”

His Aunt stared back at him in silence, obviously shaken by his burst of anger.

“I didn’t mean…,” she stuttered, struggling for the right words. She looked close to tears, but she didn’t cry. She only lowered her head as if to apologize. “It is just…first Ser Barristan turns out to be a traitor and now Ser Jorah. Can you blame me for being cautious?”

Suddenly, everything was clear to him.

 _I was such a fool_ , he chided himself. _I shouldn’t allowed my anger to blind me to the obvious truth._

“No, I don’t blame you, Daenerys,” he replied and softened his voice. “But I am not your enemy and I think neither are Ser Barristan or Ser Jorah. Both had plenty of possibilities to kill you, but neither did. Do you want to hear my honest opinion on this matter?”

“Speak,” she replied almost softly and searched his gaze.

“Pardon Ser Barristan. He redeemed himself and you have dire need of a capable man like him. Daario is capable enough, but he is only here because he hopes to profit from your exploits. Ben Plumm is a capable man, but he is still a sellsword. Ser Barristan, however, is a knight and has fought more enemies than Daario and Ben Plumm together.”

His Aunt nodded her head.

“I shall call for him.”

“And Ser Jorah?”

“Hear him speak,” Jon replied. “But do not allow him to remain in your service.”

“Why?” his Aunt asked, her voice returning to a mistrustful tone. “Because you don’t like him?”

“No,” Jon replied. “Because most of Robb’s lords would eye him with mistrust.”

“The same can be said about you,” his Aunt countered.

“True,” Jon granted her and couldn’t help but to smile. “You got me there. And now let me give you one last advise…Just because I say this or that, doesn’t mean I am in the right nor do I expect of you to listen to me. I am merely giving my opinion. You are the Queen and I respect that. You should know that.”

“I understand,” she said at last and even smiled a little. “I shall hear what Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah have to say. Until then, I want you to go about your task.”

“And the Butcher King?” Jon asked.

“Will be left at peace. I shall decide upon a further cause once Ser Jorah has returned to us.”

“Why not allow me to do it?” Jon asked. “Do you not trust me? Be honest for once, Daenerys? Do you trust me or not?”

“As I have learned only recently,” she told him sadly. “A Queen can’t trust anyone. That said…I do trust you to fulfil the task I gave you and I value your council, but trust you want from me, like good wine, needs to be earned, nephew. And there is another reason…a more obvious reason why I am trying to keep you away from the battlefield. If you are my nephew you then you are also my heir.”

…


	6. Of Winter Roses and Mummers

Dany had braced herself for this day, but now that she laid eyes on Ser Jorah she felt only dread.

“Your Grace,” Ser Jorah greeted her with a seldom smile. He looked unharmed, safe for a cut above his brow. It made her wish that she had never heard Ser Barristan’s words. “Yunkai is yours.”

“I heard of it,” she replied and tried to smile, but failed miserably “And I value your service…,” she trailed off, her voice failing her as her eyes darted to her nephew.

His face was a blank mask of ice. Gone was the hot-headed young man that had quarreled with her. Until then she had not seen much of her forbearers in him, but when he had snapped at her, baring his truth thoughts, she had seen a glimpse of the dragon beneath his icy façade. Strangely, in that moment he had reminded her of her brother Viserys, but not the brother that had sold her to Drogo, but the brother that had once fought a man with his bare hands to defend her. This brother had been taken from her when he had been forced to sell their mother’s crown and had been exchanged with a vicious monster, but Jon was different. He may hide his feelings behind his cold demeanor and he had a talent to rouse her temper, but he had also defended her life against the Titan’s Bastard and he had yet to give her a bad council. And yet, more than now she couldn’t help but to think of the visions from the House of the Undying. _Three treasons you will know. Once for blood, once for gold and once for love._

_Is the Mummer’s dragon one of these traitors? And if so, which one is he?_

Ser Barristan’s and Ser Jorah’s recent treachery had left her with even more doubts.

“I have made a grim discovery during your absence…we had a traitor among us,” she added, trying to make her voice appear softer, to hide her true intentions. “Arstan Whitebeard was no common squire, but in truth he was Ser Barristan Selmy, a man who bent the knee to the usurper.”

Ser Jorah froze, an even grimmer expression than usual taking hold of his features.

“Did he harm, your Grace?” he asked, his hand brushing over the pommel of his sword. “I shall bring you his head.”

“He did not,” Dany assured him and lifted her hand. “He protected and gave me this city…like you gave me Yunkai. I gave him this task to prove his loyalty and now I am thinking of pardoning him. I would like to hear your council?”

“Cut off his head,” Ser Jorah replied without hesitation. “He still to you. He deserves a traitor’s death.”

_Like you_ , she thought bitterly and tightened her grip on the skirt of her dress. _Would you council me to take your head as well?_

“I heard you,” she replied in a trembling voice and shifted her attention to Strong Balwas.

“Bring Ser Barristan.”

The Eunuch obeyed and not long after he returned in company of the old knight. He looked different as he had shaved of his beard, his blue eyes meeting hers across the marbled hall.

“Your Grace,” he greeted and dipped his head in reverence. “I am prepared to face my punishment.”

“Not yet,” she replied and shifted her attention back to Ser Jorah. She could scarcely bear to look at him, so deeply Ser Barristan’s accusations had shaken her. “First you will repeat your accusations against Ser Jorah.”

Ser Barristan didn’t hesitate to do so.

“Ser Jorah served as a spy for the Spider, who was giving King Robert information on you and your brother’s whereabouts. In return for his services he was promised a pardon for his own crimes.”

Ser Jorah paled visibly and fletched his teeth.

“Khaleesi…,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Is it true?” she demanded to know. “Is he true what he says?”

“Ser Barristan is a traitor,” Ser Jorah countered. “Why do you believe his word over mine? I saved your life, did I not?”

“You did save me,” She granted him and gritted her teeth. “Ser Barristan and you both saved me and so did my nephew, but that doesn’t mean you are more trustworthy than them. If Ser Barristan’s words weren’t convincing I wouldn’t have wasted a second thought on this matter, but there is something he told me that seeded doubt in my heart…The poisoner in Vaes Dothrak…Ser Barristan knew every detail about this plan and he claims you did as well. I have always wondered how you knew about the poisoned wine…,” she trailed off, giving Ser Jorah another chance to confess his lies.

“I told you that I knew it from a letter,” Ser Jorah replied. By now his neck had turned crimson, though whether it was from anger or shame she couldn’t say. “I have warned you a hundred times. I warned you about Arstan. I also warned you about Xaro and Pyat Pree and every time I was proven right. Why do you…” he continued, but Dany wanted to hear none of it. She desired the truth, no matter how bitter.

“Aye, you warned me, against everyone except yourself,” she replied colder than intended. “Trust no one but Ser Jorah Mormont, you said and all the time you were serving the Spider.”

“I didn’t serve him!” he snapped back, his anger obviously getting the better of him. “Aye, I took the damn eunuch’s gold and I was offered a pardon, but that was not all…” he continued to slip deeper into the abyss.

“All?” she asked bitterly. “You spied on me and sold me to my enemies!”

“Only for a time,” he admitted and grimaced in obvious pain. “But I stopped.”

“When did you stop?” Dany asked, tears burning in her eyes. “When?”

_You are the blood of the dragon_ , she reminded herself and brushed these feelings of sadness away. _The blood of the dragon does not weep._

“I made one last report from Qarth…,” he admitted sourly. Even now that his treachery lay bare for everyone to see he remained stubborn.

“From Qarth?” Dany asked in utter disbelief. “What did you write? That you changed your allegiances? I remember well, that you once offered to take me away. Was that your wish or the wish of the usurper?”

“I wanted to protect you from harm,” he replied firmly, but could scarcely look at her. “I knew what snakes were waiting for you out there.”

“Snakes?” she asked, every word pouring from his lips more painful than the next. “You told them that I was carrying Drogo’s son.”

“That…,” Ser Jorah stuttered, but this time it was Ser Barristan cut in.

“I was there when the Spider told the council and when King Robert decreed that Her Grace and her child must die. You were the source and there were even discussions that you might do the deed yourself.”

“Another lie!” Ser Jorah snarled at the old man. “I kept her Grace from drinking the wine…I saved her life while you were still licking the Usurper’s boots! What right do you have to judge me, old man?”

“So it is true,” Dany conclude, her heart clenching with pain. “You knew about the poisoned wine from the Spider, didn’t you?”

“I...the caravan brought a letter from Varys…he warned me against possible attempts,” he explained and fell to his knees. “If I hadn’t told them someone else would have done it. You know that.”

“I know only know that a poisoner tried to kill my son because of your actions,” he replied icily. “That’s what I know.”

He shook his head. “I never meant…you have to forgive me.”

“Have to forgive you?” she asked and bit her lips, drawing blood. “I have to do nothing of the sort. Ser Barristan is a traitor like you, but he didn’t deny his crimes when he was confronted with them and he is prepared to face them with humbleness, but you are giving me nothing but petty excuses. Whatever your reasons were….I can’t forgive that.”

“I fought for you and I killed for you,” Ser Jorah defended himself. “Daenerys…I have loved you.”

“So claimed Viserys,” Dany choked. “And he sold me to Khal Drogo.”

Again her mind returned to the three treasons. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. She had wrecked her brain over them many times. The treason for blood could be Viserys or her supposed nephew. The treason for gold could either be Jorah or Xaro. _He took gold from the Spider_ , she knew now, yet like always her mind came back to the third treason. _For love_ , she recalled. Her nephew didn’t love her nor had Viserys after he had turned cruel, but Jorah had claimed so numerous times.

_He kissed me_ , she recalled. _And now he must leave._

“Leave me. You are banished, Ser. Go back to your masters in King’s Landing and collect your pardon. Or perhaps the butcher of Astapor might have use for you. I heard a king has always need of knights.”

He grimaced, pleaded with her, stretching out his hand, but Dany backed away.

“Do not ever touch me again. You have until dawn to collect your belongings and to leave this city,” she gave her judgment and averted her gaze, her tears ever close, burning like fire in her eyes. “Stay and I will have your head cut off.”

She didn’t turn around until she heard the closing door. Then, she buried her head in the palm of her hands.

They were all gone now. Like her father and mother and her brothers. Ser Willem as well, and her sun-and-stars and her son….all of them gone. All she was left with was her nephew or perhaps only a mummer’s dragon.

“You have a good heart, my Queen,” Daario purred like a cat. “But you shouldn’t have let him live. Let me take care of it…,” he offered, a smile curling on his lips.

She had once felt charmed by him when he had brought her his companion’s heads, but now she felt only disgust.

_Another false smile_ , she realized now. Jon was right about this too. Daario was a good fighter, but not trustworthy, but the same could be said about everyone in her service, even her nephew.

“Leave him be,” she replied indifferently and lifted her gaze, her eyes seeking Ser Barristan’s. ”Let him go home.”

“Now to you, Ser,” she added and tried to sound queenly, but she felt only like a silly girl. Even the crown resting atop her head felt heavier than usual. “You served my father and brother, but you abandoned Viserys and bent the knee to the Usurper. Why?”

“I did,” Ser Barristan replied truthfully. “You have to understand…Prince Viserys was only a boy while Robert was a…a good knight…and he spared my life and the life of many others. Yet the truth for my betrayal goes far deeper…The truth is…even as a child your brother seemed to be his father’s son.”

Dany felt like slapped and recalled the gruesome tale her nephew had given her.

“The Mad King,” she repeated and gritted her teeth. “Are you saying that Viserys was truly as mad as him?”

“He was a troublesome child,” Ser Barristan replied, but unlike Ser Jorah he didn’t even blink when he met her gaze. “Quick to anger and prideful too. The Queen tried her best, but your father groomed him to be his true successor. There was hardly a moon when your brother didn’t pay witness to your father’s burnings. That is also the reason I withheld my name from you. I wanted to watch you for a time to make certain that you are not like him.”

It hurt, it hurt so much. Viserys could be cruel, stupid and prideful even to his own blood, but he had also been her brother.

“Viserys protected me and fed me,” Dany couldn’t help but to defend her brother one last time. “And a long time ago he might have even loved me…he only grew mad and cruel after he had been forced to sell my mother’s crown. Mayhaps he would have never turned mad had he been guided by a man like you…,” she trailed off, her voice failing her. She gave him a hard look, fresh anger stirring inside her heart and asking for purchase. “Well, we will never know, because you bent the knee to the usurper, because you heard tales of his supposed chivalry. Well, tell me then. Where was his chivalry when he saw my brother’s butchered children and wife? Did he lift a finger to avenge this injustice? My father was a mad man…I can accept that now, but the usurper built his thrown on my brother’s children, innocent babes. May he burn in hell where he belongs.”

“It was Tywin Lannister who gave the order, not King Robert, but it pains me to say that he indeed didn’t do anything to punish the murderers,” Ser Barristan said, his voice and face so full of pain that all anger was banished from her heart. When she saw his tears, she knew that he deeply regretted his past actions. It was more than Jorah had given her and what Jon had told her was also true.

_To kill Ser Barristan would be a waste. I might have need of him in the future._

“Don’t fret,” she told Ser Barristan. “Those who put my brother’s children and wife to death will get their punishment, but it was wrong of me to blame you for a crime committed by Tywin Lannister. I called you here to judge you by your own crimes. Will you hear my decision?”

“Certainly, your grace.”

“I saw your regrets,” she said with a heavy heart. “And that is why I forgive you. In exchange for your life I ask you to give me your pledge of loyalty.”

Ser Barristan froze, shock palpable on his face. It seemed he didn’t expect to hear this kind of judgement from her lips.

“I flung my sword at Joffrey’s feet and I have not touched one ever since. Only from my Queen will I accept a sword again.”

She saw tears glittering in his eyes and knew his words to be true.

“As you wish,” she told him and asked Jon to give him her sword.

As custom expected, she offered it to him hilt first.

The old knight’s cheeks were streaked with tears as he knelt and spoke the words.

Dany felt relief and pain in equal measure, fighting for dominance in her chest.

When all was said and done, she dismissed everyone, but when her eyes fell upon Jon, she called after him.

“Jon…visit me later. I must speak with you,” she told him and left to seek the company of her handmaids.

Her handmaids helped her bath and dress in a loose dress of blue wool and above she donned a painted Dothraki vest. It was one of the many gifts Drogo had given her, but looking at it now filled her with even more doubts.

She had loved him or at least that is what she had believed, but then she had also believed that Jorah was a loyal man or that Drogo would give her the crown of the Seven Kingdoms.

The thought made her laugh now. Drogo had been strong and had been kinder to her than Viserys had ever been in his last years, but now she knew that this had been another one of her delusions. She had come to love the Dothraki, but what Jon had told her must have some truth as well. Perhaps, he was right and the Magister had fooled her brother just as much as she had fooled herself.

Drogo could have never been King of the Seven Kingdoms, she realized now. He would have given her the heads of her enemies, but he would have also pillaged and burned her subject’s lands. And while she might have been able to convince him to show mercy to some, he would have eventually reminded her that he was a Khal of the Dothraki.

_Did he ever love me_ , she wondered and her memories strayed back to the first weeks of their marriages. He had been kind to her on her wedding night, but the nights afterwards he had taken her like a mare, regardless of the tears she had shed. Only after she had learned from Doreah how to pleasure a man, had he started to show interest in her desires and only after someone had threatened the life of his son had he considered crossing the Narrow Sea.

_He killed Viserys for me_ , she reminded herself, trying to quell the doubts in her heart. _Or did he only do it because his possession had been hurt?_

Mayhaps that was the truth of it all. Khal Drogo had loved her as far as a man could love a pretty possession or the mother of his child.

_Would he have kept me if my womb was barren like now_ , she wondered, a wave of sadness washing over her and threatening to swallow her whole. _Or would he have married another woman while keeping me as his bed companion?_

The truth was all too clear to her.

Drogo had wed her for her womb, just like Daario wanted her in his bed because she was a desirable woman to conquer.

No, it had all been a lie she had told herself to make herself feel better, to banish away her loneliness…

“Your Grace,” Missandei snapped her back to the present. “Jon Snow came to see you.”

Dany sighed deeply and banished away her doubts. She had allowed Viserys’ death and had sent her bear away. Only her supposed nephew remained and Ser Barristan. They would have to serve instead.

“Lead him inside,” she told the girl. “And tell Jhiqui to bring supper.”

Then, she stepped out unto the terrace where she found Rhaegal curled beside the pool. Drogon sat perched atop stone statue and Viserion was gliding over the sky like a pale kite.

When she noticed Jon, she greeted him with a smile.

“Come,” she said and waved her hand at a nearby table, where Jhiqui had laid out their supper: salads of sweetgrass and spinach, sweet plums and boiled goose eggs. “Let us eat. Do you take wine?”

“No wine,” her nephew replied. “I have work to do on the morrow.”

“I see,” she replied and was suddenly at a loss of words. He looked like always, garbed in a faded white tunic, dark breeches and boots. His brown hair had grown longer and was now reaching to his shoulders. It was the pretties feature about him, soft and slightly curled at the edge, but mostly straight and smooth. His eyes were also pretty, especially when they were not icy like now. “Then, I will take a cup.”

“Why did you call me here?” he asked as started to peal one of the plums.

She felt hurt by reaction, but understood. She hadn’t treated him with much kindness since their last interaction

“You have been serving me for three moons and I hardly know anything about you.”

He gave her a stunned look and took a bite from the plum. He chewed slowly, the fruit-flesh soiling the corner of his mouth. He looked like a little boy who had tasted heaven.

“Is it good?” she asked.

“Very good,” he confirmed and even smiled. It was a rare sight, but warmed her heart after all the bitterness it had experienced in the last weeks. “Very good.”

“You can have more,” she offered and pushed the bowl over the table. “While you tell me about Winterfell.

He looked surprised, but didn’t refuse her offer.

Instead he started to peal another plum.

“What do you want to know?”

“What does Winterfell look like? Is it a big castle?”

“Bigger than most,” Jon replied. “At least that is what Maester Luwin told me. I have not seen many castles other than Winterfell.”

“Maester Luwin?”

“He taught me reading, writing and letters,” Jon was quick to answer. “He also taught my cousins. He was a good teacher.”

Hearing, this made her sad. Viserys had been her only teacher. She decided then that she wanted to hear more about Winterfell.

“Did Winterfell have as colorful walls as Meereen?”

“They are plain grey,” Jon gave her the truth, destroying all her fantasies in one swoop. “But it looks beautiful when the snow covers the towers and walls. Yet the most beautiful place in Winterfell is the godswood. The hear tree’s bark is as white as fresh-fallen snow and its crimson leaves are as bright as crimson. And the hot springs…Oh, what I would give to have something of the sort here in Essos.”

“Hot springs,” she repeated and wrinkled her brows in confusion. “Winterfell has hot springs? I thought it is bitterly cold in the north?”

“Winterfell was built on these hot springs,” Jon explained and smiled as he ate another plum. “That’s why it is always cozily warm inside its halls. I am not trying to fool you.”

“Daenerys,” she corrected him. “Or Dany…my brother used to call me like this when we were children.”

His dark eyes widened and he gave an accepting nod.

“I am not trying to fool you, Daenerys. When I was a young boy I and Robb went swimming there every day. Sometimes Sansa, Arya and Bran joined us. It was wonderful.”

This story she liked too. It made her think of happier times with Viserys.

“Viserys also liked to bath with me, but we had rarely enough coin to pay for a proper bathhouse. Once, we sneaked inside. It was wonderful.”

Daenerys’ didn’t know why Jon’s smile had faded the moment she had mentioned Viserys.

“Well, I have no hot springs,” she offered quickly, trying to overplay the strange tension between them. “But there is a pool of water over there. It’s pleasantly warm and you could get a proper wash. I don’t mind.”

This offer brought a smile to his lips, though he sounded a little flustered.

“I would like that.”

Hearing his positive answer, she felt a wave of joy washing over her.

“Wonderful,” she said and pulled off her dress, leaving her bare, before stepping into the water. Rhaegal chirped happily and soared over the pool, which brought another smile to her lips. But when she shifted her attention back to Jon, her smile faded.

He looked as if she had dropped a bucket of cold water over his head.

“What is wrong?” she asked in confusion. “Are you not going to join me?”

He gave her a dumbfounded look. He looked as if she had asked him to cut off his balls.

“I didn’t think you would join as well…” he replied, his voice unnaturally high.

His reaction amused her. It seemed she was finally able to crack his cold façade.

“Why not? You said you bathed in company of your sisters?”

“My sisters are children,” Jon countered quickly. “You are grown…Don’t you see? It is unseemly.”

His words confused her and amused her in equal measure. She had seen Viserys’ nakedness a hundred times and he had seen her naked as well. The same could be said about the bloodriders, her handmaids and even Ser Jorah.

“Why?” she asked, feeling the sudden urge to tease him. “Drogo’s entire khalasar has seen my nakedness. You are my nephew. There is nothing unseemly about this. Or are you afraid?”

“Afraid,” he muttered to himself, his dark eyes filled with annoyance. “I am not afraid.”

It seemed she had wounded his pride too. _Perhaps he is still a maid_ , she wondered for a moment, but then she recalled that he and Daario had spoken about girls.

“Then, prove it.”

He stared back at her in silence, his mouth opening and closing.

“I…,” he began and for a moment she thought he might bolt, but then he didn’t.

“Very well,” he said, his voice laced with sudden determination and pulled off his tunic, but stopped after he had pulled off his boots, his gaze darting back to hers. She sat half-emerged in the water and realized that he wouldn’t continue if she watched him.

Thus, she graced him with another smile and averted her gaze, pretending to look elsewhere, but she still allowed herself a brief glimpse as he waded through the water.

Doreah would have giggled at her childishness, but then she had suffered enough bitterness for a day. Was it wrong to have a bit of joy? On the morrow she would be Queen again.

Dany had once compared her nephew to Daario and Drogo and while he was not as strongly-built as them, he didn’t have to hide away either.

Her nephew was graced with a well-formed body, forged by hard training. Especially, the sight of his well-formed thighs gave her this tingling feeling she hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t badly endowed either. He was neither boy nor man though, but what she saw was promising enough. His long face was comely enough, but it seemed his real beauty was hidden behind plain clothing.

Dany couldn’t help but to conclude that her nephew looked much better without clothing.

“The water is pleasant,” he remarked awkwardly, his body now fully covered by the water. His gaze was fixed on Viserion, circling over the blue sky. “Thank you.”

She smiled and dipped her head beneath the water. Then, she shifted her attention back to him, but was mindful to keep her lower body beneath the water. She wanted to be able to look in her nephew’s face when she was talking to him.

“Tell me more about Winterfell,” she prodded gently. “Tell me about your family. Lady Lyanna Stark was your mother…What was she like?”

When she saw his sad look she regretted her question, but she still wanted to know more about the girl her brother had loved so much that he would desert his wife and children.

“I don’t know,” he replied and barely met her gaze. As the dying sunlight fell upon his eyes they changed to a purple hue. It was a beautiful sight to behold. “My Uncle hardly ever spoke about her, but I have seen her statute in the crypts of Winterfell. I think she liked flowers…winter roses…my cousins or my Uncle used to decorate her grave with these flowers. I also heard Harwin the stablemaster say that she was a capable rider.”

“She must have been very beautiful,” Dany countered. “And good of heart if my brother loved her so much. Ser Barristan told me that my brother was the best man he knew. Rhaegar couldn’t have loved anyone other than a good woman.”

“I like to think so too,” her nephew replied and averted his gaze. His eyes looked glassy and sad. “But…my father. If he was such a good man as you say…Why would he leave his wife and babes? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Dany couldn’t deny that truth, but then she wanted to believe that her brother had reasons for his actions that went beyond selfishness.

“Ser Barristan told me that my brother was a very sad man, burdened by the tragedy of Summerhall. Mayhaps he was unhappy with his wife…mayhaps your mother was a glimpse of spring for him, something he couldn’t give up without breaking apart his heart and realm…,” she continued, struggling for the right words, but then an idea bloomed in her mind.

“Mayhaps you should speak to Ser Barristan,” she suggested and brushed her wet hair over her shoulder. “He might be able to tell you more.”

“I would like that,” he replied, a weary smile curling on his lips. “It is not like I hate my father. But how could he be so foolish? Why did he die?… Why did he leave me? My life would have been different…Mayhaps even my mother might have lived. It makes my heart bitter to think what could have been…,” he trailed off and grimaced.

She felt the urge to comfort him, but doubted he would appreciate it in this state.

_I need to distract him_ , she decided right there and searched her mind.

“Winter roses,” she repeated, lacking a better topic. “Are these flowers beautiful? What color do they have? Do they grow in the snow?”

Jon chuckled.

“No, they grow in glass houses and they are blue…blue like frost. I do not understand much about flowers, but I suppose they are beautiful.”

_Blue_ , she realized, a vision of the house of the Undying slipping into her mind. _A blue flower growing from a chink of ice._

Even now she recalled its sweet smell.

_Death smells also has a sweet smell about it_ , she reminded herself, but couldn’t shake off the feeling of confusion and longing in her heart.

Her nephew had come to her from a place called the Wall.

It was all so confusion and drained away her previous joy.

_I need rest,_ she concluded _. And peace of mind._

“I am tired,” she told him then. “I think I will retire now.”

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked and gave her a confused look.

“No,” she lied. By a simple slip of tongue her life had turned even more complicated. What was her nephew? The Mummer’s dragon or the blue flower? And would he be one of the three treasons?

_I should send him away as well_ , she thought, but then she feared loneliness even more.

“I am just tired,” she assured him, pulled her dress over her head. Jon had remained in the water, probably waiting for her to leave. “Forgive me.”

He nodded his head in understanding.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have great respect for the actors of the show and the other people who work on it, but damn did the writers fuck it up.
> 
> For me it feels like a repeat of the Mass Effect Ending. Everything was good until the last five minutes when the Space Child appeared and asked me which colour I want to choose, making all previous choices unimportant.
> 
> Arya is one of my favourite characters, but her storyline has next to nothing to do with the White Walker plotline. That was Jon's plotline and Dany's. Her killing the Night King is utter bullshit. Hell, Mel, Beric, Jaime, Sam, Edd, the Hound killing the Night King would have made more fucking sense than this shit.
> 
> And how the fuck did she get there? Did she learn instant transmission from Goku? Did she borrow Littlefinger's teleporter?
> 
> The only thing that relieves me is that the showwriters at least admit that they pulled this storyline out of their asses to be  
> a cool shock moment.
> 
> That is not how a good twist works. Ignoring the entire lore for a cool moment is plain and simple shitty writing and nothing more. 
> 
> Imagine Rowling gave the defeating of Voldemort to Percy Weasly. That would have been very unexpected, but still shitty writing. 
> 
> Honestly, and the way Arya killed him was even worse. It was like taken from an shonen anime, but then it is an insult to anime to compare it to this beautiful nonsense. I have watched animes far superior in writing of political dialogue than GoT in the last three seasons. Some honorable mentions: Beserk, Legend of Arslan, Kingdom and the best...Legend of the Galactic Heroes (is based on series of novels though).
> 
> The show writers could learn from these shows a lot, namely that a well-written show depends on logic and more than just cool special effects.
> 
> That said. I don't care about Cersei and Euron Greyjoy. At least not the show version ones. I am only going to watch for the conclusion of the main characters and prey that George finds it in him to finish the books one day.
> 
> Sorry for the rant, but I needed to unleash my emotions. Now I feel much better.


	7. The Blood of Innocents

**Jon**

Left and right the blades met. Ser Barristan was almost a grandfather, but he was still quicker and his blows were not to be underestimated. There were strength and precision behind them.

That his shoulder ached with every movement of his arm only helped to slow down his movement.

Again the blades kissed and parted within the blink of a moment. This action repeated itself three more times, before Jon backed away, trying to ease the weight on his sword arm.

He gritted his teeth as he parried another blow, a sharp pain running down his arm as the blades kissed in a dance of steel.

Again, Jon lifted his blade and aimed at Ser Barristan’s left side, his weaker side. As if the elderly knight had anticipated his next step, he managed to parry his blow halfway.

The elderly knight smiled as Jon’s blade slid against his. Then, he stepped backwards, lifted his blade and bombarded him with a barrage of blows that drained  all air out of Jon and left him laboring for air.

Left and right, he parried each blow, but otherwise he was far too slow. He had barely managed to lift his blade when Ser Barristan dealt him a quick blow to the left. Jon stumbled to the side and barely managed to parry the next attack.

To put distance between him and Ser Barristan, he stepped backwards and observed the elderly knight’s movement. He moved with the ease of a dancer, his blue eyes twinkling like two stars as he graced Jon with another smile.

It was not the first time. Jon had noticed these smiles more than once. Sometimes, Jon couldn’t shrug off the feeling that Ser Barristan was searching his father’s face in his features.

“I think that is enough for today,” Ser Barristan added and sheathed his blade. His face was flushed and sweat coated his cheeks, but he looked barely exhausted. “Let’s allow the other ones to prove themselves.”

With other ones he meant the young freedmen Jon and Barristan had been training the last weeks. Most of them ranged from ten and four to twenty and were well-built youths that had been used to hard work all their life. Yet their strength was no use if it was not directed into the right direction and that is what Barristan and Jon had been trying to do. They had trained the boys like one would train squires. With sword, shield and spears, on horse and afoot. The boys were enthusiastic, but it would take years before they were as capable as they should be.

“Aye, let’s see what they can do,” Jon agreed and sheathed his blade, before brushing the sweat from his brows.

The sun loomed high above the Great Pyramid of Meereen like a boiling egg. It was midday or so Jon guessed, but he wasn’t sure. They had overseen the drills of the recruits all morning.

This seemed to please them far more than the drills Jon and Ser Barristan had imposed on them. They looked excited and whispered to each other in their respective tongues. Jon understood only parts of it as many of them spoke strange dialects of Bastard Valyrian he was still unfamiliar with.

Ser Barristan had it easier, for he was also well-versed in High Valyrian.

The first one to volunteer was Red Lamb, a strongly built Lhazareen boy with a sun-burned face. His enemy was Larraq, a thin and lanky boy, who was very skilled with the whip.

Even so, Red Lamb seemed enthusiastic about the fight and twirled his spear like a mummer, a broad grin curling on his lips.

Ser Barristan gave the sign and a moment later Red Lamb was already hacking at his enemy. He was all ferocity, but had yet to learn the proper handling of a spear to do any real harm. Left and right he jabbed his spear at Larraq, who used his speed and shield to his advantage. Every time, Red Lamb aimed at him, he absorbed the attack with his spear, his small dark eyes waiting for the right moment.

Thus, the dance continued. Round and round they moved as Red Lamb continued to bombard his enemies’ shields with blows. Red Lamp, who was known to have little patience, fell for it and gave his enemy the opportunity he had been waiting for.

Within the blink of a moment, Larraq had ducked out of the way and had snapped his whip around his enemies’ feet, before yanking Red Lamb off his feet.

The hot-headed young man cursed as he kissed the ground while Larraq received cheers and approval from the onlookers.

“Well done,” Ser Barristan added in Bastard Valyrian. “You both did well.”

Red Lamb frowned. “I lost.”

“You didn’t lose,” Jon corrected him. “You merely made a mistake. Next time it won’t happen again, because you will remember. That is why we train. Winning is for the battlefield and called killing. This here is just a game for children.”

Red Lamb gave him a disbelieving look and returned to his assigned place. This procedure repeated itself a good dozen of times and by the time they had finished the sun had started to disappear behind the colorful walls of Meereen. As always, Ser Barristan had left shortly after paying witness to Red Lamb’s and Larraq’s duel. Everyday, after midday he went to join Daenerys in her never-ending task of hearing petitions.

Weary and sweaty from the heat, Jon dismissed the boys and returned to his sleeping place.

Daenerys had offered him a place in the Great Pyramid, but he had refused. He rather slept in company of the men he was training than in these soft beds once occupied by these slavers.

Daenerys was different. She had to appear a Queen.

 _And I am her nephew_ , he reminded himself as he stripped naked to wash himself with the water left to him by the boy that served as his squire. His name was Tuco, a small sun-kissed boy that sported a nasty burn on his cheek.

 _I once dropped a cup_ , he had explained to him one night. _That is why my master punished me._

Jon had shown him his own burned hand. This must have endeared the boy to him, because ever since that day Tuco was much more open-hearted towards him.

The water was already lukewarm, but it was enough to remove the grime and dust that covered his body. And yet he longed for a proper bath, like the one he had taken in company of his Aunt, no matter how strange that had been.

Jon was by no means prudish. He had seen countless of naked girls before he had taken his first girl to bed, but when his Aunt had offered him to take a bath, he hadn’t expected her to strip naked and to join him.

His first reaction had been to leave, but then she had teased him as if he was a maid instead of a man grown.

Thus, Jon had stayed and for a brief moment it had felt as if she had allowed him a glimpse beneath her façade, but then she had changed back to her serious self.

 _I must have said something wrong_ , Jon thought as she sprinkled the water into his hair. _Why else did she send me away so suddenly?_

He had of course visited her again and at times she was very friendly towards him, but at other times she seemed troubled and confused. For some time, Jon had attributed her ever changing behavior towards him as a sign of mistrust, but by now he had realized that his Aunt was just like most girls. Very confusing.

The touch of the water in his hair felt pleasant, but even better felt the fresh tunic Tuco had washed for him.

“Thank you,” he thanked the boy, who was eating a bowl of lintel soup. He was rather small for his age and at times Jon was not sure if he understood him properly, but yet he couldn’t have asked for a more dutiful squire. “You may go to bed if you wish. On the morrow you can join me for another round of training.”

“That good,” the boy replied in Broken Valyrian and grinned. “I like fighting.”

Jon was pleased by his answer and fastened his cloak. Before leaving the barracks he fed Ghost and left him in company of his little squire, who had taken an immediate liking to his wolf.

Jon took it as a sign that he could trust the boy and had by now no qualms to leave Ghost in his company.

When Jon entered the gardens, he found his Aunt seated beneath the peach tree, the bright sunlight making her form appear blurred and distant.

Only as he stepped into the shadow of a nearby tree was he able to see her properly. She wore of these loose dresses that bared her shoulders and navel. Where he came from most people would have considered such clothing inappropriate, but then he was in Meereen a city of heat and blood. His Aunt, like most women in this city, seemed not to care about presenting their nakedness to the world. More than once, he had seen a woman with bared breasts or a bared womanhood walking through the streets as if it was the most normal thing in the world. His Aunt had only done so once, but what little he had seen of her had confused his mind.

More than once he had tried to suppress the sensations whirling up inside him whenever he thought of her well-formed small breasts. His Aunt was a beautiful girl and yet she was still his Aunt.

He hadn’t come here to bed her, but to help her.

 _Do not lie to yourself_ , he reminded himself of the truth. _You came here because she is your only way home._

This was also true, though his inappropriate thoughts towards her confused him greatly…

It was Rhaegal’s shriek that aroused her attention. Her hair fell over her shoulder as she moved her head and the bells fastened on her braids filled the world with a soft song.

“Jon,” she said, surprise evident on her face. “I didn’t expect you.”

“It was a spontaneous decision,” Jon explained and cast his gaze to the sky. “Do I bother you?”

“No,” she replied, her voice laced with sadness. She looked very distraught. “I just didn’t expect you.”

Her dress was not only revealing, but had a low-cut chemise that left little space for imagination.

 _Gods be good_ , Jon thought as he got a glimpse at her nipple and felt a jolt of heat cursing through his loins. _This is utter madness._

He tried to imagine something unpleasant to banish these feelings away. He recalled the deadmen he had buried in Myr, but didn’t help. Only when he thought of Lady Catelyn, did his inappropriate thoughts disperse.

“Are you well?” asked his Aunt.

“Aye,” Jon replied and pulled his cloak from his shoulders. Then, he spread the garment on the ground and graced his Aunt with an encouraging smile. “I would prefer to stay here.”

His Aunt seemed surprised, but didn’t refuse his request.

She even smiled and nodded her head in confirmation sat back down.

“The dragons seem happy,” Jon remarked as he watch them fly circles over the sky.

“Seems so,” she agreed and shrugged her shoulders.

“You look tired,” Jon remarked and pulled out a handful grass. It helped to calm his whirl of thoughts. “Were the petitioners as pesky as always?”

“Not just the petitioners,” she confirmed. “Have you heard about the dead Unsullied?”

Jon had heard something about the dead Unsullied in passing, but he hadn’t inquired further.

“What happened?”

Her face fell and she pulled out a handful of grass.

“They were slain while they were visiting a brothel. Their murderers butchered them and stuffed the genitals of a goat into their mouths. It were the same men that killed the freedmen. The Sons of the Harpy.”

“Sons of the Harpy,” Jon repeated and recalled that the Harpy was a symbol of the masters. “A fitting name…But why were these Unsullied in a brothel?”

“To find comfort,” Daenerys said, her voice trembling. “You don’t need a cock to seek comfort from a woman’s arms.”

“And what are you going to do about these Sons of the Harpy?” Jon asked in return and searched her gaze.

“I do not know yet, but I sent out Greyworm to investigate,” she admitted, but avoided his gaze.

Jon frowned at that. The Unsullied were better suited for the battlefield than to conduct investigations.

Daenerys smiled wryly when she noticed his frown.

“Ser Barristan has already told me that the Unsullied are not exactly well-suited for this task, but I have little choice in the matter. Ben Plumm is holding Yunkai and my bloodriders are occupied with subduing the hinterlands like you had bid me and Daario is in Lhazar. Mayhaps he and your former brothers could serve once they return from their task.”

Jon nodded his head in understanding and pondered over the problem.

“The Stormcrows would be a better choice for sure, but even better would be if the freedmen could protect themselves. Sadly, most of them wouldn’t even be able to fight off a squire, let alone these Sons of the Harpy. A proper guard would be better. There are pit fighters among the freed slaves. Mayhaps you could use those.”

“A good idea,” she agreed hesitatingly. “But I have yet to see the gold the masters were hiding in their estates and until then the Unsullied will have to suffice. And according to one of my pesky petitioners these pit fighters are more interested in killing each other than to serve as my guards.”

“And who is this pesky petitioner?” Jon asked in return.

Daenerys frowned as is she wanted to avoid talking about him, but then she suddenly lifted her head and smiled when the dragon Viserion unfolded his pale wings and soared into the sky. It was a beautiful sight, but Jon had also paid witness to the danger these beasts could pose.

It made him wonder how his forebearers had managed to tame them. Did it just happen naturally? Did they just hop on their backs and fly away? Probably not. It was hard for him to believe that such proud beasts would submit easily to the will of mere humans, Targaryen or not.

Once Viserion was gone she shifted her attention back to Jon.

“The man’s name is Hizdahr no Loraq, a wealthy merchant with many friends in Meereen and across the sea. He supposedly visited Volantis, Lys, Qarth, has kin in Tolos and Elyria and is even said to wield some influence in New Ghis. According to him, some masters were able to slip out of Jorah’s hands and are now trying to stir up New Ghis against me.”

Jon was not surprised by this revelation. Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai were not the only cities that practiced slavery. That the other cities would not look friendly upon his Aunt’s actions was to be expected.

“And what makes this Hizdahr so pesky?”

Daenerys exhaled deeply and blew her strands of silver hair out of her face.

“This Hizdahr is quite rich and acquired all the fighting pits in the city. Today was the six time he came to ask me to reopen the fighting pits. An old tradition he calls it, but in truth it is a blood sacrifice, a blood sacrifice to the gods. Well, he thinks this bloodshed would be eased by the fact that the victorious fighters are pampered and acclaimed for their skill and the slain ones are honored and remembered. He also thinks that by re-opening the fighting pits I could make coin and win the respect of the people of Meereen.”

Jon had listened in silence, but was confused by her dislike for the idea. It would fit her current policy of making peace with the people of Meereen. Jon had advised her against it, but he had also named her his Queen and it wasn’t like she had refused all his suggestion. At least, she had sent her khalasar to subjugate the hinterlands and had tasked the Dothraki and the Unsullied to demand children from every single noble family. Said children were now serving as Daenerys’ cupbearers and attendants, though Jon had envisioned them more as hostages. Seeing Daenerys play with them worried him more than the Sons of the Harpy. Hostages were not meant to be cuddled and pampered. They were meant to be a leverage against their fathers and in the worst case, to be killed. Yet his Aunt treated them like guests of honor. It wasn’t like Eddard Stark had mistreated Theon Greyjoy, but Jon had no doubt that even Lord Eddard would have done his duty and executed Theon if Balon Greyjoy had dared to break the peace he had made with King Robert after the Greyjoy Rebellion.

“You are having that look again,” she remarked, a ghost of a smile curling on her lips as she pulled on her slippers. “Speak.”

Jon laughed at that. It had become some sort of a jape between them.

“I hope my council will not displease you, but I think you should re-open the fighting pits. You said you could make gold from it…use it to set up a proper guard. Mayhaps this Hizdahr might even be prepared to give up some of his pit fighters for your cause.”

Her furrowed brows told him that she didn’t like his council, but she didn’t outrightly refuse his suggestion either.

“I understand what you are trying to say, but I have already sold the well-born back into slavery. I do not wish to support these bloody games.”

“You cannot force freedom upon them and you can only help those who are willing to take your help. If these pit fighters are willing to fight, allow them to do so. Daario was once a pit fighter and he is quite proud of his reputation and so are many others. You cannot compare them to slaves that are forced to work the fields and the mines. The same can be said about these well-born. They would have never been able to take up the work of a farmer even if you gave them land to work. It might sound strange, but I think for some people the life under a generous master is more pleasant than to take responsible for their own fate.”

Daenerys had listened attentively, but even after he had given his arguments she seemed displeased with the idea.

“I shall think about it,” she said at last in obvious frustration and pulled the slippers from her feet. They must have hurt her, because she sighed in relief when they were off. They were made from gilded leather and decorated with green freshwater pearls, but looked too small even for his Aunt’s dainty feet.

“Are they too small?”

She nodded her head in confirmation, a half-smile curling on her lips.

“A little,” she admitted. “They are also a gift from the butcher king. It seems my feet belong to a child. Well, they are as pretty as they are uncomfortable.”

Jon chuckled as he recalled a tale that Old Nan had told them about a girl who cut off her toes to fit into a glass shoe. He had forgotten the rest of the tale, but it probably ended like many of such tales: with a wedding. Sadly, the girl had to give up her toes. It made Jon wonder if the bargain was worth it in the end.

“What is so funny?” his Aunt asked. “Do you know someone who could have use for the slippers?”

“Give them to Missandei,” Jon suggested. “Her feet look dainty enough and a Queen’s Lady-in-waiting should look proper.”

Daenerys seemed to like the idea, a startling smile spreading over her lips.

“Missandei will like that. It shall be done.”

“And what if the Sons of the Harpy continue to kill?” Jon asked, the question that had been burning under his skin since the moment he had heard about the death of the Unsullied. “I know you are trying to make peace with the people of Meereen, but you cannot allow these murders to go unpunished. Mercy is good, but they might also take it as a weakness and it might encourage them to continue with their actions.”

The dark look taking hold of her features told him that he had overstepped his bounds.

“I will not butcher children,” she insisted in a firm tone.

“That is their purpose…,” he countered, but his Aunt’s grimace silenced him.

“I do not wish to talk about killing children…,” she told him and wrinkled her nose as if she recalled a bad memory. Then, she pulled herself to her feet, her slippers still in hand. “I value your advice in this matter, but I wouldn’t be better than the Usurper or my father if I killed children. And now I must leave…there are matters I need to attend to, nephew.”

Her answer had hit him like thunder. Robert Baratheon had benefitted by his half-brother’s and half-sister’s deaths. He hadn’t butchered them himself, but he still had their blood on his hands by allowing Tywin Lannister to get away without punishment.

Before he had known about his parentage, Jon had never wasted much thought about these children. Prince Rhaegar had been a madman to him, someone who had deserved his fate. His children had not matter in the grand scheme of things nor had his wife Princess Elia. Killing them was a necessity King Robert had been forced to take to secure his claim. It had made sense to Jon, though he had never cared much about King Robert. He had been Lord Eddard’s friend, but Jon hadn’t been particularly impressed with him. He had looked like a fat and drunken fool, not like a King.

But now he knew the truth.

His half-sister and half-brother had also died for Jon and he would have to bear this guilt until the end of his days, unless he managed to take revenge on those who had murdered them.

He had tried to bury these thoughts in the back of his mind, but now they spilled forward like a wave overcoming a ship.

Even the cup of wine he had poured himself didn’t give him much comfort.

“You look distraught, my boy,” Ser Barristan’s soft voice roused him out of his deep thoughts. Ghost growled, but he calmed down when Jon lifted his hand.

Jon angled his head and graced the elderly knight with a smile. Like Jon, he didn’t reside in the Great Pyramid, though he often attended to his Aunt and spent more time there than in Jon’s company.

“I am well,” Jon lied, though he was sure that Ser Barristan was able to see through him. “I am just tired.”

“You visited her grace,” the old knight remarked instead and sat down near the brazier to arm himself. Meereen was a city of heat and blood, but the nights could be chilly and full of sandstorms. “It seems to me that your visit upset you.”

“Me?” Jon asked in confusion. “It is my Aunt who seems distraught and I think I made it worse.”

Ser Barristan nodded his head and inspected the flagon of wine Jon had placed on the table. “I overheard your conversation about the hostages. Her grace is indeed upset, but not because of anything you said, my boy. The sad truth is…it seems Drogon burned a child.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath. Drogon was the largest of the three dragons and he was certainly capable of killing a grown man. A small child wouldn’t pose much of an obstacle for him.

“He must have been hungry,” Jon surmised and felt a hint of relief. It was no wonder that his Aunt had been angry about his suggestion for the child hostages. “Well, they are still beasts, despite their intelligence. I suppose my Aunt blames herself?”

“She does,” Ser Barristan confirmed, a warm smile curling on his lips. “Her grace has a kind heart. It can be both a strength and an obstacle. She has much of your father, just as you.”

Jon was taken back Ser Barristan’s words. He had neither the silver hair nor the purple eyes the Dragon Prince had been famous for, but Ser Barristan was probably referring to his character not his looks.

“Am I? In what way?” Jon asked and poured himself another cup. The topic of his father was a touchy topic for him, but it seemed it was time to address it. He couldn’t avoid it forever.

“You have his single-mindedness and tendency for melancholia,” Ser Barristan explained and leaned back in his chair as if to get a better look at Jon. “You also have his eyes.”

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“What you call “melancholia” my brother Robb used to call broodiness. Was that the reason he ran away with my mother and threw the seven kingdoms into a war? Was he so unhappy with his other wife? Was she the reason for his sadness?”

Jon’s words had banished away Ser Barristan’s smile, a more serious expression taking hold of his weather-worn face.

“Princess Elia had nothing to do with the Prince’s sadness. It had its origin at his birth in Summerhall and what followed afterwards. To be honest, I do not think your father had it in him to be happy. There was always something doomed about him. Your mother…I suppose she was a piece of happiness he was desperate to keep, despite the consequences.”

Jon had heard about the tragedy of Summerhall, but he didn’t know that his father had been born there.

“You said ‘what followed afterwards’,” Jon repeated and rose to his feet to retrieve a cup from the wooden box placed across the room. “Would you tell me about it in detail? Over a cup of wine?”

Ser Barristan’s smile returned.

“A cup should do no harm. Her grace has dismissed me and bid me to rest.”

Jon returned the smile and filled the cup to the brim, before handing it to Ser Barristan.

“Its bitter,” Jon replied and sat down. “I should have gotten some honey.”

Ghost had also woken from his slumber and walked over to Jon, his furred head brushing against his shoulder.

Jon scratched his ear and chuckled when his wolf started to lick his face.

“It seems Ghost also wants to hear the story.”

Ser Barristan laughed and took a hesitant sip from the cup.

As expected, he grimaced. The wine from here was bitter and made his tongue curl, but he had gotten used to it by now. Ser Barristan, on the other hand, hardly ever drank or indulged in such simple pleasures.

“I shall be honored to entertain your loyal beast,” Ser Barristan jested and placed the cup on the table. He didn’t look as if he had any interest in trying the wine again. “Where was I?”

“You wanted to tell me about the cause of my father’s sadness,” Jon reminded him.

“Ah, yes,” Ser Barristan said and sighed deeply. “Well, I didn’t know your father as well as his closest confidant Ser Arthur Dayne, but it had to do with a prophecy.”

Jon was taken back by his words. A prophecy was the last thing he had expected.

Yet he wished to hear more.

“Please, go on.”

“Prince Duncan, King Aegon the Unlikely’s heir fell in love with a beautiful Lady from the Riverlands. Jenny of Oldstones was her name. It was also this Lady who brought a woodswitch to court, who prophesies that a promised prince would be born from King Aegon’s line that would bring back eternal spring. I do not know the details of this prophecy, but it was the reason King Aerys and Queen Rhaella were forcefully wed. As it happened, it was an unhappy marriage, but I suppose that is the price King Aegon and King Jaehaerys were prepared to pay to beget this prince. Well, King Aegon perished in Summerhall and King Jaehaerys died from a mere fever. Mayhaps they were punished for their belief, but your father was also raised with the belief in this this prophecy. He was always a somber child, who preferred his harp and books to sword and shield, but one day he everything changed,” Ser Barristan had recounted his father’s childhood, but he had stopped abruptly as if he wasn’t quite sure if he should continue.

Jon was not sure either if he wanted him to continue and fell silent.

 _I cannot run away_ , he reminded himself and took a sip from the cup to drain away his fears. _I need to hear the full truth._

Then, he lifted his head and gave Ser Barristan an encouraging nod.

“Please, go on. Tell me…What changed about my father?”

Ser Barristan smiled approvingly.

“One day your father Prince Rhaegar decided to leave his books behind him and stepped out unto the practice yard. ‘It seems I have to become a warrior’ he had said to Ser William Darry, with such a serious tone that even the guards had started to laugh. Nobody had expected, that the bookish prince would take up a sword, though your father proved them all wrong. He was an excellent swordsman, though he had always favored the lance.”

“And yet he lost at the Trident,” Jon couldn’t help but to remind Ser Barristan.

“Aye, but skill in the practice yard had little to do with a real fight on the battlefield. I wish I had been there to help your father. I might have been able to save his life. Another one of my failures,” he admitted and lowered his gaze to the ground.

Jon leaned over and touched his shoulder. He couldn’t speak for his father, but for himself.

“You are no failure. What happened was fate or perhaps bad luck. Who knows? Or mayhaps it was punishment for believing in silly prophecies. Tell me, Ser Barristan. Did my father really believe he was this promised prince?”

“He did,” Ser Barristan confirmed. “For a time, but then he changed his mind or that was at least what Ser Arthur implied to me once. He believed that Prince Aegon was this promised prince, but the fact that he died makes it impossible. Well, I do not know what to make of your father’s belief in prophecy…All I know is that he was a good man who tried his best to handle King Aerys’ madness. Sadly, Lord Varys was always one step ahead of him.”

“How so?” Jon asked curiously.

Ser Barristan sighed deeply.

“Harrenhall was not meant to be a simply tourney or so Ser Arthur Dayne had implied to me once. It was meant to be a way to unite the Lords and Ladies of Westeros against King Aerys. I don’t think Prince Rhaegar intended to kill his father, but he certainly intended to remove him from power. Sadly, Lord Varys made this impossible by informing the King and the rest you know yourself…,” Ser Barristan trailed off.

“My father crowned my mother Queen of Love and Beauty and a year later he disappeared with her,” Jon finished for him, the old bitterness engulfing his heart and begging for release. “Leaving his wife and children. You call him kind and good. What was kind about that?”

“I doubt the Prince had any intention to leave his children forever. He was always very devoted to them,” Ser Barristan defended his father. “As for the Princess Elia…Prince Rhaegar and Princess’ union was a match their parents arranged for them. Most of the time they resided at Dragonstone, because the King held little love for the Princess and thus I do not know much about their relations during this time, but when they were in King’s Landing the Prince was rarely seen in Princess Elia’s company. Despite her sickly health, Princess Elia was a vibrant woman who enjoyed dance and mummeries. She always lightened up when she was around her ladies, but the Prince didn’t share her love for such spectacles. He always was a bit of a loner despite being well-liked by everyone who knew him. I do not think the Prince held any personal dislike for Princess Elia, but I also think they did not have much in common beyond their children.”

“And yet he left them to die,” Jon countered, the guilt still clenching around his heart like a tight noose.

“He didn’t do anything of that sort,” Ser Barristan retorted, his voice laced with suppressed anger and his blue eyes piercing into Jon’s. “Before he left for the Trident he came to King’s Landing to bid them farewell. Prince Rhaegar wanted them to go to Dragonstone, but King Aerys destroyed your father’s plans, by keeping them in King’s Landing. Tell me, my boy. Why do you think was your father so eager to fight Robert Baratheon?”

Jon was taken back by Ser Barristan’s angry reaction. He didn’t know what to say.

“Why?” Jon asked instead and kept his voice intentionally low. It hadn’t been his intention to insult Ser Barristan.

“Because killing Robert Baratheon would have probably ended the war. He was after all the spearhead of the rebellion. I suppose Prince Rhaegar intended to parley with the rebels once the battle was done and to reveal the truth to your Uncle Lord Eddard Stark, namely that he wed your mother and fathered a child on her. I admit, I did not know Lord Stark well, but I do not think he would have continued the war had he known the truth, let alone fought his own nephew.”

Jon didn’t know why, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree with Ser Barristan.

The bitterness was still there, poisoning his heart with fresh hatred.

“My Uncle told me that it is an honor to serve in the Night’s Watch and the fool that I was I believed him. Had he known any honor to begin with he should have told me the truth before allowing me to throw away my life. He used my guilt and shame against me. That was vile of him and even now I cannot bring myself to forgive him,” Jon allowed his anger to spill forward, hoping to find understanding in the elderly night. “He chose Robert Baratheon over his own nephew. Thus I can only disagree with your assessment. I am not sure what my Uncle would have done. Not that it matters. They are all dead…my father, Princess Elia, my siblings and my Uncle… he is in the Night’s Watch.”

When Jon was done pouring out his anger, Ser Barristan picked up his still half-filled cup and offered it to him.

“Drink up, my boy. You are not at fault for what happened to Princess Elia and your siblings. That was Lord Tywin’s work, not yours. And in regard to your Uncle…we are all human. Make your peace with his lies or your hatred will eat you up.”

“On the first part I can agree,” Jon replied and picked the cup from Ser Barristan’s hands. “But I cannot forgive my Uncle…Maybe in the future, but not yet.”

Then, he drank deeply, trying to forget the anger and bitterness poisoning his heart.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone cares about a recommendation, but I have recently started watching the historical drama Isabel of Castile.  
> It is about a Queen from Spain...the one that gave Columbus the money to fund his expedition. It is very well-written and on par with earlier season of GoT. I would say there is even more politics involved. Battle scenes are mostly implied, but the actors are good and know what they are doing. Sadly, it is in Spanish, but there are English subtitles available.
> 
> But I have to give some warnings:
> 
> The show is a European show, which means it is not at all political correct like American shows.
> 
> There is rape
> 
> There is an implied sexual relationship between a thirteen year old girl (the actress looks as old as Lady Mormont) and and a man in his fourties:: The King of Portugal marries his niece. There is no sex scene, but it is implied.
> 
> The characters are grey, which means they are not always honorable and nice.
> 
> Isabela is a strong woman, but also selfish and very pius. She also does some things that most people do today would find very questionable. Like she openly hates Jews and Muslims. She also installs the Inquisition and usurps her niece's throne. She is not perfect, but a well-rounded characters with failures and wishes.
> 
> Fernando, her husband is the second main character. He is a hot-headed guy who cheats on his wife and has several bastards. Their relationship goes from loving to stormy and then back to loving again. Most women today would see him as a macho. When confronted with his adultery he basically tells Isabella "I am a man! I am a King! I can fuck whoever I want!". This leads to fights between them, but it is very realistically handled. Though when bad stuff happens he sticks to her side.
> 
> Their relationship is probably the most realistic relationship I have ever seen on TV when it comes to a portrayal of medival life.
> 
> Plus you can also learn a lot about Spanish history. The show is pretty accurate.
> 
> Well, nobody is forced to watch it, but I thought people might want to clean their system from the bad writing we got in the last two weeks. That said, the romance between Fernando and Isabel is very well-done. I also like how they handle the children. They are all mentioned and shown, since they are important for later history.
> 
> Here is the trailer:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4cEc9uasrg
> 
> If someone rather wants to read something: I am re-reading the Warlord Chronicles by Bernhard Cornwell. It is really good. It is like a grittier re-telling of King Arthur. The Battle Scenes are awsome!


	8. A Declaration of War

**Deanerys**

Dany walked through the water of the terrace pool, a soft wind touching her skin. She felt cold and alone, the fish nibbling on her toes as she waded through the water.

She dipped her head beneath the water, closed her eyes and allowed herself to float away as if she was seated upon Drogon’s back.

It felt as if she had been embraced by heaven, but her peace state was soon disturbed by the rustling of the trees.

Sitting up she swept her gaze over the terrace, but found nothing, but grass and a flock of birds seated in the twigs of the persimmon tree.

“They are asleep,” a soft and familiar voice whispered and caused her to turn around. Suddenly, there was a woman, her face hard and shiny beneath her dark hood.

It took her a moment to realize that the women wore a dark red, lacquered mask of made of wood.

_Quaithe. This has to be a dream…_

“What are you doing here?” Dany asked  and recalled how Quaithe’s last appearance had led her where she was now, Meereen. “How did you make it past my guards?”

“Your guards never saw me,” Quaithe whispered, though she was far away. “Hear me out, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, the lion and the griffin, the sun’s son and the mummer’s dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware of the perfumed seneschal…,” Quaithe trailed off, her voice growing ever softer.

“Reznak?” she asked in a trembling voice. Reznak mo Reznak was her seneschal and one of her trusted advisors, the heavy smell of his perfume still lingering in her nose. _It can’t be…and the mummer’s dragon…Jon is already here. If it is not him then who is it?_

Water trickled down her body as she crawled out of the pool, her feet touching the soft grass, but her eyes searching Quaithe’s gaze of moonshine.

“Remember the Undying…,” Quaithe’s warned again, but gave her no clear answer to her many questions.

Dany was sick of it.

“Don’t give me riddles, give me answers!” she snapped and stretched out her hands to touch Quaithe’s robes, which instantly dispersed into nothingness as if she had been made of light and air alone. “Speak plainly.”

“Remember the Undying…remember what I told you,” the voice grew ever fainter, before fading away like the morning mist.

Dany fell to her knees, her mind a storm of confusion.

“I remember,” she muttered to herself and pulled out a handful of grass. “I remember the way. To go north I must go south, to go east I must go west and to go back I must go forward. And to touch the light I must pass beneath the shadows.”

It was another riddle, but no answer to her questions.

“I am the blood of the dragon,” she reminded herself and yet she had chained her dragons.

Was it another mistake?

She also recalled the words of the Undying all too vividly.

Child of three, they had called her. Three mounts she had been promised, three fires too and three treasons. Once for gold and once for blood and once for love.

“Your Grace?” Missandei’s soft voice woke her from her slumber, her small hand pulling on Dany’s nightgown. “Who are you talking to?”

Dany sat up, the bedding slipping down to the waist.

It must have been a bad dream, she realized as she searched Missandei’s face. Dany could still see the sadness lingering in her gaze. A weekturn ago, one of her two brothers, who had been turned into Unsullied after they had been taken from their home in Naath, had perished at the hands of the Sons of the Harpy.

Missandei had wept bitterly and ever since she had taken Irri’s place in Dany’s bed. Dany liked to keep her close as it reminded her of happier times when her brother had still loved for her…

“Nothing,” Dany assured Missandei and slipped out of bed. She trembled as her feet touched the cold stone floor.

“Dawn is close,” she told the girl as she noticed the faint light streaming through the windows. “I best dress and eat.”

The little scribe was quick on her feet, but Dany waved her hand to stop her.

She didn’t want to be alone. Not when her mind was heavy with worries.

“Stay and help me braid my hair. Then, we can eat together,” she offered instead and received a stunned look.

“Jhiqui and Irri,” the little scribe replied, but Dany silenced her with a shake of her head.

“Let them sleep,” Dany added and smiled at her. “Now come and help me braid my hair.”

Missandei was hesitant, but complied. She worked quickly and once she had finished her work, the little scribe wanted to slip away to retrieve their breakfast, but Dany held her back.

“Let me braid your hair as well,” she offered to the girl, her golden eyes growing wide.

“Your…,” she stuttered, but Dany’s smile silenced her. “Let me try…I am quite good at braiding hair. My brother Viserys showed me how to do it when I was little. Sometimes, he even allowed me to braid his hair too.”

The memory made her smile, but also sad.

Missandei seemed to sense her sadness and sat back down, her small fingers touching Dany’s silver hair locks.

“Did your brother have pretty hair as you?”

“Aye,” Dany replied, tears burning in her eyes as she started to braid Missandei’s curly hair into something that resembled a braid. “My brother had very pretty hair.”

 _It was the only pretty thing about him in his last years_ , she recalled. She had hated and loved him in equal measure, but he had destroyed everything when he had threatened the life of her unborn child. _If you had just been patient…_

“You had two brothers,” Missandei stated after Dany had finished her work. “Like me.”

“Aye,” Dany confirmed again and pulled herself back to her feet. “I had two brothers. Rhaegar and Viserys. I named my dragons after them.”

A sad smile curled on the girl’s lips as she touched the small braid falling over her naked shoulder.

“Do you think the dragons are afraid in the dark?”

Dany shuddered and felt the sudden urge to correct the little scribe _. A dragon knows no fear_ , she wanted to say, but that was another lie.

Dany feared the dark just as any other little girl.

“Dragons are fire made flesh,” she said instead and patted the little scribe’s cheek. “Now go and fetch us some supper. You must be hungry.”

Not longer after sunset, she returned with a bowl of dates, honey and two cups of milk. They ate in silence, the whispering of the wind their only companion, before Dany called for Jhiqui and Irri to help her dress and fasten her bells.

The last time she had faced Xaro as a beggar, but today she wanted to welcome him as a Queen, though the crown resting atop her head felt heavier than ever.

Dany watched as the dancer’s sleek bodies moved. Blazing torches swirled from hand to hand, the beat of a drum and lute filling her ears.

Whenever the torches were crossed in the air, a naked girl leaped between them, spinning madly.

Dany found the whole event comical, counting three erect in the crowd of onlookers.

Amused, she shifted her position and shifted her attention to her advisors.

Raznak’s mouth was wet, his dark eyes greedy as he watched the girls move. Ugly Shavepate, was stern as ever, and Ser Barristan had refrained from attending altogether, but promised once the dancing was done.

Even bothersome Hizdahr zo Loraq had come to attend the spectacle or perhaps their guests were friends of his. She hadn’t asked him, for wished not to speak to him further than politeness demanded it. The triumphant smile he had given her after she had allowed him to re-open the fighting pits had only intensified her dislike for the man.

And yet it had been the right thing to do. She needed the gold to set up a proper guard.

Missandei’s second brother won’t fall prey to the to the Sons of the Harpy, so much she had sworn to herself after seeing the little scribe’s tears.

The loud beat of the drum snapped her back to the present and made her eyes dart back to Jon, who was not seated far from her, beneath the large marble pillars holding the heavy ceiling above.

He looked so different from his usual self. He wore polished armor and the cloak she had gifted him.

The dark cloak fitted his long brown hair. It looked almost black in the flickering torch light, almost like raven feathers.

 _Fire magic_ , she thought with amusement and searched his long pale face. His eyes were two pools of blackness, but they weren’t focused on the dancing girls, but their guests. He was seizing them up, like his white wolf whenever he was making a new acquaintance.

 _He truly is an ice dragon_ , she realized again. It made her wonder if his cock was as cold as his sharp gaze. It was as a silly thought, but the only amusement she could find in this place.

Looking at him again, she realized that she wouldn’t mind taking him to her bed. It was what would be expected of her kind and it would certainly please her more than the suitors the Green Grace had in mind for her.

Yet that wasn’t the only reason. She like Missandei’s and her handmaid’s company, but it was not enough to quench the loneliness in her heart...

She couldn’t allow herself to love this nephew of hers, but would it be so wrong to seek comfort?

 _No_ , she reminded herself and averted her gaze.

She had loved her brother too. He had promised to make her his queen before he had sold their mother’s crown, but then he had grown mad and had sold her to Khal Drogo.

And while she no longer doubted that Jon was her blood, she also knew that she couldn’t allow herself such an indulgence.

It was too dangerous, for both her heart and the future of her house.

She would never bear children, but Jon Snow could continue the line.

It can never be, she thought and shifted her attention back to their guest. Never.

The pale and hawk-nosed man who shared her high table was garbed in robes of yellow silk and a cloth-of gold, his bald head shining in the torchlight as he ate a fig. Splendid opals lined the nose of Xaro Xhoan Daxos as his head followed the movement of the dancers.

Dany had done her best to dress up for her guests. She had chosen a Qartheen gown, a confection of violet samite and cut in such a fashion that it left her breast bare. Jon had given her one of his frozen looks when he had seen it, which had amused her. She couldn’t take him to her bed, but she could tease him. It made her wonder if it would be enough to lure him into her bed. Daario wouldn’t have hesitated, but Jon Snow’s tales about Daario’s many adventures had dimmed her interest in the flamboyant sellsword. It had been easier than expected to sent send him away to Lhazar.

Xaro’s smiled when the male’s dancers pulled the girls unto their members.

Dany watched in silence as they went about it to the rhythmic sound of the drum.

Suddenly, she felt warm, her gaze darting back to Jon. He met her gaze briefly, but the sound of clapping snapped her back to the present.

The dancers knelt and she joined their clapping.

“You were splendid!” she tried to show her approval. “Never have I seen such beauty…such grace.”

Then, she urged Reznak to escort the other guests to the baths before lifting her cup to her lips.

The wine was both strong and sweet and she savored its taste as she watched Xaro picked a persimmon from the golden plate Jhiqui was carrying around.

He must have liked the taste, because he pursed his lips.

“Would my lord prefer something sweeter?” Dany asked softly.

Xaro ignored her and took another bite, chewing slowly. Only once he was done did he speak.

“Daenerys, oh my sweet queen, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is for me to be here. A mere child left Qarth and now I find a queen.”

Dany tried to return his false smile. “And I am glad you came to see me, old friend.”

She had need of his help, no matter how much she hated it. For centuries the cities of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen had been the center of slave trade, but without slave trade this city had little to offer. She needed to make friends to feed her people.

“I had no other choice but to come here,” Xaro replied calmly. “Even far away in Qarth fearful tales have reached my ears. It is said that your enemies have promised wealth and glory to any man who slays you.

“The Sons of the Harpy,” she confirmed tried to hide her anger as best as possible. She couldn’t allow herself to show weakness in front him, not matter how much the past murders had upset her. “They hide in the shadows and murder my people. They are cravens, but I am not afraid. They should fear the wrath of my Brazen Beasts.”

These Brazen Beasts were the newly formed watch of Meereen, made up of freedmen and pit fighters.

Day and night, they were patrolling the streets, garbed in their dark hoods and brazen masks. It was necessary to hide their faces, for the Sons of the Harpy had promised a cruel death to all traitors and their kin.

Xaro chuckled lightly and shook his head. “A craven’s knife can slay a queen as easily as a hero’s blade. I would sleep more easily if you had your blood riders beside you. Where are they now?”

“Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo are still in my service,” she replied and forced a smile over her lips. He was clearly playing a game with her.

Thus, she smiled sweetly and twirled a silver curl around her finger. “I am just a silly girl, but my advisors tell me that to hold Meereen I must control the hinterlands. That is where my brave bloodriders went.”

“Your hinterlands mean nothing to me, but you, oh sweet queen, you are precious to me.”

 _Another lie_ , she knew, but her smile only brightened when she noticed Ser Barristan’s presence. Jon had also left his seat and was beside Barristan, his dark eyes narrowed as he continued to seize up Xaro.

“There is no need for you to fear for my safety, old friend,” she explained and waved her hand at Ser Barristan Selmy. “As you can see…I am well-protected. Ser Barristan the Bold they call him and he saved my life twice.”

It was the first time she saw a hint of surprise in Xaro’s dark eyes as he angled his head to take a good look at her Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

“Barristan the Old?” He asked softly, pretending that he had not heard her properly. It was meant to mock her, she was sure. “Did you exchange him for the bear knight? I must say you made a bad bargain:..,” he was about to continue, but Dany cut him off.

“I do not wish to discuss Ser Jorah,” she told him curtly and brought her cup to her lips. The sweetness helped to wash the sour taste from her mouth. “Let us speak about other things. Let us speak about business.”

“Business,” he repeated, an amused smile curling on his lips. “Why speak of such boring things when we could speak about other, more pleasant matters. Tell me, oh sweet queen, why did you leave me?”

“Qarth wished me gone,” she replied teasingly and picked a grape from the bowl in front of her.

A single tear rolled down his cheek when he heard this. It was another mockery.

“Who would want you gone? The Pureborn? The Spicers? The Undying? You could have been my wife. I asked, no begged for your hand if I remember correctly.”

Dany feigned amusement. She remembered his begging all too well, but she knew that his cock would no stir for someone like her. His cock would only stir for a pretty boy like one of these dancers. It would be a fruitless marriage for both of them.

“You asked me a good hundred times. In the end I stopped counting.”

“What if I ask again?” Xaro inquired overly sweetly. “No, I know better than that. You would refuse me again. I cannot do that to my bleeding heart.”

Again he shed a tear.

Dany ignored his advances and came straight to the point.

“I am know that you do not desire me in such a common way, old friend,” she laid out the truth. “Tell me, why did you really come here?”

“Because I heard of your exploits, oh gracious queen.”

“Ah, my exploits!” she repeated teasingly. “And what concerns you about them so much?”

“I was just stunned to hear about it,” he countered. “You had no qualms about my slaves when you dwelled in my home and now you are conquering cities instead of reclaiming your crown. What changed your mind, oh precious queen?”

“Your slaves seemed content,” Dany replied defensively. “But in Astapor my eyes were opened to the cruelty of slavery. I assume you know how the Unsullied are trained?”

“Tempered in blood and strife,” Xaro replied. “But how could it be otherwise? My dancers are also slaves and have been trained since they could walk. They are not so much different from the Unsullied and yet they would never achieve such greatness without a strong hand to guide them down his path. I was even thinking of gifting one of them to you…to keep your empty bed warm.”

Dany took a sip from her cup and feigned a smile. “Then, I shall free them to.”

Xaro winced visibly as if he had smelled something rotten.

“And what use is freedom?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “What can a dancer do other than dance? The same goes for the Unsullied. What can an Unsullied do other than to kill and fight?”

Dany didn’t like that tone and took another sip from her cup. “And who decided that for them? You did. Mayhaps some of them wanted to purse another future.”

Xaro sighed, like older men tended to do in presence of young children. It made her blood boil, but she forced herself to remain calm.

“Daenerys, my sweet queen, you have a tender heart, but let me give you my counsel. Things are not as easy as they seem. We curse rain, but yet we need it. The world needs rain and the world needs slaves. You might disagree with me, but it is true. You may have freed them, but yet you sit above them to rule as their Queen. If you think about it, you are not that much different from the masters.”

He had spoken eloquently, but Dany couldn’t bring herself to agree with him.

“Rain is not the same as slavery. I know what it means to be sold and I can assure you that no man wishes to be owned.”

He gave a shrug and took a sip from his cup, before he dealt her another blow.

“When I came ashore I spotted an old friend of mine. He was stripped naked and digging a hole. It pained me deeply to see a man humiliated who had once been a guest in my home.”

“He was digging a ditch,” Dany replied in a flustered tone. “To bring water from the river to the fields. We mean to plant beans.”

Xaro laughed triumphantly.

“And I suppose my friend generously offered to dig that ditch? Was it his choice? Well, last time he spoke to me he begged me to take him back to Qarth to serve as my slave.”

The words hurt, but Jon had told her the same. _Don’t waste your efforts on slaves who do not want your help…_

“Then, you have my support to take him with you,” she replied in displeasure. “It would ease our burden and I do not wish to see a friend of yours unhappy. But you must repay him for his efforts.”

Xaro smiled. “I shall do that, sweet queen, but that is not the only reason I came here. Is there some private place where we can speak plainly?”

Dany disliked the idea, but she had need of his help.

“Come then,” she offered softly and soon Xaro was following after her, up the marble steps that led to the outer terraces. Ser Barristan was also there, following after her like a faithful shadow. Jon’s gaze had followed them briefly, but he had stayed behind.

A starry night sky spread over the walls of Meereen, a full moon glittering in the distance.

Then, she sighed deeply and bared her true intentions.

“I told you before what I want to speak about…business. Trade with me, Meereen has salt to sell and wine…,” she began, but Xaro’s sour face silenced her.

“Ghiscari wine is not to my taste, but I would buy all the olives you care to sell to me, my sweet queen.”

Dany’s heart sank. “Sadly, the slavers burned all the olive trees. We are trying to replant them, but it takes up to seven years until an olive trees bears fruits.”

“What of copper?” she asked, still hopeful.

Xaro’s false smile dashed all he hopes. “A pretty metal, but fickle as a woman. Give me gold and we can speak. Give me slaves and I shall give you gold and food feed your people.”

“Meereen is a city of free men,” she insisted stubbornly, though it felt like a lie. She had sold the well-born. She had allowed Hizdahr to re-open the fighting pits and she was now tempted to sell men for gold…

Xaro seemed to sense her doubts and dealt her the next blow.

“A city of starving and dying men,” he scoffed. “To make Meereen rich you need slaves. You know how it goes. The Dothraki make the slaves, the Ghiscari train them, but to bring them to Qarth the Dothraki would have to drive them through the red waste. We have need of slaves and we are prepared to pay you handsomely. Do not ruin Meereen as you ruined Astapor. This once prosperous city is now ruled by a lowly wretch and the people there are now dying like flies because of the plague and hunger. Continue with your quest and you shall only reap more blood and death for those you claim to protect. New Ghis, Myr and Volantis are already hiring swords against you: The Company of the Cat, the Long Lances, the Windblown. Some say the Golden Company as well.”

She bit back a sharp comment and continued to smile. Viserys had once tried to hire the Golden Company to their cause, but they had mocked him.

“I too have sellsword companies,” she began, but Xaro cut her off.

“Your enemies will send twenty sellsword companies if need be. And when they march to war they will be accompanied by many others. I have heard that Tolos and Mantarys have only recently forged an allegiance.”

Dany felt sick when she thought of the envoys she had sent to these places. _All for nothing._

“We have made an allegiance with Lhazar,” she replied weakly, almost expecting another scoff.

“The Lamb men are no threat, my sweet queen.”

“They will be,” she bared her fangs. She had tried her best to be courteous, but she had heard enough of his mockery. Again and again, Jon had asked her to send men to Astapor and she had refused, not wishing to weaken Meereen’s defense. Now she realized that she had made a mistake. She had shown weakness by allowing this butcher king to rule over Astapor, a weakness her enemies now wanted to use against her. “I have gold too and I can hire sellswords.”

“But not enough,” Xaro countered and leaned over to touch her arm. She brushed his hand away, meeting his gaze.

“I have my freed men and I have my Unsullied,” she added sharply. _And my dragons_ , she wanted to add, but that would be a lie. She had chained them, because of that little girl. Her name had been Hazzea. “Is that why you came here? To threaten me? Tell me, did _they_ sent you here?

Xaro feigned a smile, glittering tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Of whom do you speak?”

“The enemies you named,” Dany replied, no longer fooled by his façade. “Did they send you to spy on me?”

“You wound me,” he wept and backed away as if she had slapped him. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I came to bring you a gift. I bring you the thirteen ships had asked for while you were still dwelling in my humble mansion. Thirteen galleys and men to pull the oars.”

Dany couldn’t help but to frown. When she was still a widowed khaleesi she would have readily accepted his gift, but the times had changed. She couldn’t simply abandon her cause.

“I might consider your offer if you gave me thirty or fourty ships, enough to transport my Unsullied over the Narrow Sea. Thirteen are not enough.”

Xaro frowned.

“You are blind to the danger that lurks in the shadows, my sweet queen. Pyat Pree set out with three of his fellow warlocks to seek you in Pentos. Best would be for you to leave as soon as possible. I doubt they would be able to reach you across the Narrow Sea where your father’s crown is still waiting for you.”

Strangely, Dany felt not afraid. She had lived a life of fear. It was her constant companion.

“I am not afraid of these warlocks and their blue lips,” she countered brazenly. “What say you? What do you say to my offer?”

“Fourty ships,” he muttered in utter disbelief. “Impossible.”

Dany had known beforehand that he would refuse, but the stunned expression on his face was worth it.

It was a small victory, but better than nothing.

She chuckled and kissed his cheek. It was a dry kiss, meant to instill fear rather than comfort. If she had her children here she would have had them paint the sky with their colorful flames.

“I have no need of such a meagre offer,” she replied coldly. “Thirteen ships are not enough. You may have our hospitality, but on the morrow I want you gone from this city.”

Xaro paled visibly.

“My…,” he began, but Dany turned her back to him and cut him off. “I have no need for your false friendship. Tell those that want me gone that I shall not surrender the city and those I have freed. Tell them that I will defend them with fire and blood.”

No longer was his face filled with sadness. No, an ugly grimace of anger had taken hold of his face.

This was his true face.

“I shall repeat my offer once more. Take these ships and leave. You have made many enemies. This is my last warning.”

“As you told me before,” Dany acknowledged and averted her gaze. “Now leave and take your false friendship with you.”

It had felt so good to speak plainly, but when she saw Ser Barristan’s serious face she knew that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her.

“You think I should have agreed to his offer, ser?”

The old knight averted his gaze, barely able to look at her bared breasts. Jorah wouldn’t have looked away.

Jorah had loved her like a woman and Ser Barristan loved her like his queen. _What am I to Jon then? His estranged Aunt? A friend?_

She couldn’t say.

“Speak. I want to hear your opinion.”

He cleared his throat and stroked his white beard as drew closer.

“The warlocks,” he began, but she silenced her with a wave of her hand.

“Forgive me, but I fear no warlocks. I want to hear a better reason, ser.”

“Westeros…your home awaits you,” Ser Barristan replied plainly. It was such a simply answer, that filled her heart with a deep longing. She had never known a home, besides the house with the red door in Braavos. Sometimes she believed it to be a dream, something she made up to still the sadness in her heart, but Westeros, her father’s lost seat, that was real and no dream.

“I shall think about your words,” she replied then and leaned closer to place a kiss on his cheek. “Please, send Jon to me.”

Jon joined her not long after, still garbed in the beautiful cloak she had gifted him.

She asked him to sit beside her, the table in front of her still covered with the fruits she had wanted to gift Xaro.

“I sent Xaro away,” she told him when he came to stand in front of her. His black gaze darted to her bared breast and then to her face. He looked slightly annoyed, but kept his composure. _Does he detest me so_ , she wondered. It were the thoughts of a silly girl, not a queen. Or mayhaps the dancers had stirred something inside her. It had been too long that she had lain with a man. ”He offered me thirteen ships to sail home.”

Jon’s frown deepened further.

“Thirteen ships is a meagre offer,” he said at last and sat down in front of her. “And I think now is not the right time to sail for Westeros. Your dragons are still too young.”

His words sounded reasonable, but by his serious expression she could tell that he wished for something different.

“You worry that I chained them,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“I could never chain Ghost, even if he killed a hundred children,” Jon countered and angled his head to look at her. He was barely an arm-length away from her. She didn’t know why, but in the blink of a moment the expression on his face had grown even sadder. “They also say that the dragons died because they were chained. I do not want to see them suffer the same fate.”

“I know,” she said and leaned over to squeeze his hand. “But the girl…she died…I cannot control them. Do you know how?”

“No,” He admitted and squeezed her hand in return as a deep sigh left his mouth. Then, he dropped his head down to his chest, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders like a shroud. “I do not know. Mayhaps Maester Aemon would know. I wish he was here.”

Dany grew sad when she thought about that poor grand-uncle of hers, sitting atop this frozen Wall.  Suddenly, Xaro’s offer didn’t sound so bad anymore. How long would this grand-uncle of theirs continue to live? Mayhaps that had been her only chance?

That thought made her even sadder.

 _Silly girl_ , she thought, but it was no use to weep over spilled wine. _That is what happens when you allow your temper to overwhelm you._

“He will tell us when we return to Westeros,” she promised and received a half-smile from her nephew. It was such a seldom sight and warmed her heart.

It was a dangerous feeling and she quickly pulled her hand away.

“But first I must take care of my people here,” she declared firmly, putting more distance between them. “I want you to go to Astapor. You can take as many Unsullied as you like, but I want you to take Greyworm with you. He can be of help to you.”

Jon Snow didn’t hesitate to nod his head in acceptance.

“Do not fret,” he assured her in return. He sounded confident as ever. “I shall go to Astapor and bring you the butcher king’s head.”

…


	9. A City of Death

**Jon**

Astapor was a city of red stones. No, that was not right. Astapor was a city of death and blood.

Until now Jon heard only stories about this city, but riding through its bloodied streets made him wonder what this place must have been like before Daenerys’ had killed the masters.

Everything in this city had once been geared towards the business of slave trade, but now it was a place of hell.

Everywhere he looked he found death. Half-rotten corpses littered the ground, half-starved children were hiding in the abandoned and burned-down buildings. Now and then, he spotted a woman carrying a babe or pulling her children along the street. The only women that had approached them had offered themselves up as whores in exchange for food and water. That the majority of their army was made of Unsullied didn’t seem to bother them and some of the Unsullied had been quite receptive to their offers.

 _Even men lacking a cock crave human warmth_ , Jon recalled as he swept his gaze over the place that had once been the Plaza of Punishment or that was at least what Tuco had told them. He, like many other slaves had followed his Aunt to Meereen.

Jon couldn’t fathom what it must feel for the boy to return here, though he seemed calm as ever. He hardly spoke, but now and then he pointed at a pyramid and gave him an anecdote about its previous owner or whether this or that particular master had been kind to his slaves or not.

Not that any of these masters had made it. Most had been killed during the sack of the city and the rest had had been slain by the rebellious slaves. The few that had been left after this, especially the younger noble boys, had been turned into a new force of Unsullied, serving the supposed butcher king.

The Unsullied marching with Jon had taken offence when Jon had called the butcher king’s half-starved boys “Unsullied.”

 _Unsullied cannot be made in a matter of moons_ , Greyworm had told Jon when they had laid eyes on the good thousand boys the butcher king had sent to meet them in battle. _It takes years to train them. These are green boys, a poor imitation of the Unsullied._

The battle itself had lasted barely an hour, before the false Unsullied had bolted, abandoning the battle. Some had even turned on their own men, who had continued fighting, butchering them like sheep. The rest, as their brave leader, had fled back behind the city walls.

Thus, the siege of Astapor had begun.

Jon and Greyworm had both expected that the slaves inside the city would eventually turn on their king, but that the siege would only last for two days had surprised them.

 _The gates to the seven hells_ , Jon thought in hindsight as they rode towards the large pyramid, where large crowd of people had gathered. Looking at their fine clothing one could have believed they were masters. Some of them wore silken tokars, fringed with gold and silver. Others had bedecked their necks, arms and other body parts with golden necklaces, rings and silver trinkets. They looked like princes or lords, though their gaunt faces told him that they too hadn’t seen a proper meal in a long time, which didn’t surprise Jon.

They had found hundreds of peaked corpses strewn over the city. More had died of hunger than through violence and many more would die in the coming weeks.

Jon had taken several wagons of food with him, but they would also have depend on what little was left in the city.

“Be praised, friends!” one of the men exclaimed and lowered his head in greeting to Jon and Greyworm. “The Mother of Dragons be praised too!”

The man that had spoken was a haggard fellow with a crimson robe and a heavy chain of gold. He looked like a master, but the slave markings on his neck betrayed the truth.

It was an ironic sight to behold. These were former slaves who had donned their master’s clothing and yet all looked starved and haggard.

All the riches in this city hadn’t been enough to feed them.

And now they had butchered their king. Jon also didn’t know if he shouldn’t consider them friends or enemies.

They had to tread carefully.

“Who are you?” Jon asked and whistled at Ghost, who had bared his teeth. “Are you the leader of these people?”

The smell of blood clinging to these men must have woken his animalistic urges, but after Jon had whistled Ghost backed down immediately.

“I am Nekloz,” the man explained, his voice laced with a thick Ghiscari accent. There was a hint of anger behind that voice. “I once served as a master of this city. For some time, I served as his scribe and thought letters to his children. Later I was even his trusted steward. When the Mother of Dragon’s freed the city all the slaves in my household rebelled against my master. The butcher king was one of these slaves and I helped him murder our master, but then he also murdered the poor mistress and turned her boys into Unsullied. I have raised these boys and I have loved the my mistress…and now I have taken revenge against the butcher king.”

Then he waved his hand at a young man, who had just emerged from the ever-growing crowd of people.

“Here. A gift for you, my friends.”

Jon didn’t even have to take a look into the bundle the young man was carrying. The woolen material was drenched with blood.

Jon held his breath as he glimpsed inside. The smell was still blinding and made him want to empty his meagre fast onto the open street, but the sight that presented itself to him was even more grizzly.

Jon counted six heads, all of them bloody and rotten. One head belonged to a man in his forties and was particularly ugly. His face was so bludgeoned it looked as if it had been kicked throughout the entire city, but it was not the sight of this head that had caused him distress. No, it were the heads of the women and small children that made his stomach flutter in discomfort.

“I suppose that is the butcher king?” Jon asked and pointed at the bludgeoned head.

“Aye,” the man confirmed and bared his teeth. “And the others are his wives and children. We killed them all. A worthy gift for the Mother of Dragons.”

Jon doubted Daenerys’ would welcome such a gift, but after seeing the state of the city he had a good idea what kind of a king this butcher king had been. He must have been must have been worse than the masters if his “subjects” had butchered him and his king in such a grizzly manner.

Jon nodded his head and swept his gaze over the crowd of people. Lord Eddard would have taken these man’s head for butchering innocent women and children, but this man had also been of help to Jon.

A siege could have lasted for weeks or even moon, the siege of Astapor had only lasted for barely a few days.

And the blood of women and children had been the price for their quick victory.

The thought filled Jon with rage and shame.

 _Was this how Lord Eddard had felt after she saw my half-siblings’ butchered corpses_?

If you hadn’t broken your vows you could have asked him yourself, Jon knew. The feeling of guilt was not as strong as in the past, but the guilt was still there, making his heart clench.

 _I am not my Uncle_ , he reminded himself and banished these feelings from his heart _. I am may own person. I must make my own decisions._

Thinking like this made it easier for him to forget his disgust and helped him clear his mind.

And yet he couldn’t help but to give the man a sharp rebuke.

“The Mother of Dragons would feed you to her dragons if she knew that you butchered women and children,” Jon told him and brushed his hand over the pommel of his sword. It was a threatening gesture. “But I did not come here to sit justice over you. I came here to free this city from the butcher king. Tell me, how many freedmen still reside among these walls and what is needed to return order to this city?”

“Order?” another man asked bitterly. He was short and stocky, his head bald and red like a lobster. “Are you blind? Those that remain are either starving or dying in the Temple of Graces. This city is lost…soon there will be nothing left but rotting corpses.”

Jon felt slapped and exchanged a quiet look with Greyworm.

Greyworm looked as if he wanted to speak, but he remained silent.

Greyworm never spoke unless asked.

It must be an old habit or mayhaps he was simply showing respect to Jon because Daenerys’ had ordered him to do so.

It made Jon only more away of his position. He was acting on Daenerys’ behalf.

“How many freedmen are still residing in this city?” Jon repeated his question and searched the man’s gaze. “I am only asking for a rough estimation? And more importantly…How many of them are sick?”

“Around ten-thousand are still residing in this city,” a woman added pleadingly, her single remaining eye wet with tears. She was around fifty, her face wrinkled and her other eye an empty socket. It looked as if someone had burned it out with a hot poker. “A third of them is sick and the rest is either starving or looting the city for food. You must help us…please.”

Jon shuddered when he noticed the skeleton child clinging to her skirt. It looked more like a walking corpse than a human, spittle running down its lips chin.

“All will be well,” lied and shifted his attention back to the crowd.

His voice faltered a little when he saw the sheer amount of people, but then Jon straightened himself and raised his voice. He couldn’t allow himself to show weakness.

“None of you shall be judged for the murder of the butcher king or his family. This I promise, but now that the city has been freed from his grasp we need to restore order. I have brought food, but it will be strictly rationed. Looting shall be punished with death and the Unsullied will carry out this punishment without question. I also have need of able hands to gather and burn the rotten corpses. Everyone who works shall receive food, this I promise. Those are the rules. Accept them and live or break them and die.”

“We cannot stay!” a young girl begged, completely ignoring his earlier words. “The plague will kill us all!”

“Your rules cannot feed us!”

“We need to leave this city!” Another woman wept and fell to her knees.

“Meereen! Take us to Meereen!” a boy shouted at the top of his lungs. “Meereen is our only hope!”

More and more of the freedmen gathered around them. Ghost bared his teeth as them, but Jon waved his hand at him, urging him to remain in place.

The Unsullied, who had walked in formation had also raised their spears, their sharp tips now pointing in the direction of the freedmen.

Yet it was no use.

“Enough! Calm yourself!” Jon shouted at the top of his lung, but by then one of the freedmen had struck the first blow, a sharp dagger finding its way through one of the Unsullied’s leather armor.

It was the spark that made the keg blow over. Daggers roses and fell and spears found their way into women and men alike. There were children too, their shrieks of terror filling his ears.

Jon had not had much time to think, for the freedmen had tried to drag him from his horse, but Jon had managed to slip his blade free and had slashed a man’s neck. He kicked another out of the way and a shrieking woman was killed by Ghost, who had buried his sharp teeth in the woman’s neck.

Jon fought his way through the crowd, hacking down those that were trying to howl him down and avoiding those who were trying to evade him. He swept his gaze left and right, searching for his squire, who had been swallowed by the crowd.

When Jon laid eyes on Tuco, he was half-dead, his head bloody as if it had been cracked with a hammer. Jon gritted his teeth and pushed a good dozen of people aside, but it was no use. The boy was gone.

Yet he had not time to mourn. Soon he was also fighting for his own survival, hacking away men and women alike…

When the butchery was finally over the sky had changed to a gloomy grey color, the pyramids casting long shadows over the ravaged streets.

Off in the distance he noticed swathes of dark smoke blemishing the sky.

“How shall we proceed?” Greyworm asked him later after they had brought order back to the city and had retreated to the safety of one of the stepped pyramids. He was a few years older than Jon and yet he was asking him what to do.

 _I spoke to them like a silly boy_ , he realized, slowly becoming aware of his failure. _I was a fool to expect obedience from them._

He should have known better than to expect obedience from a horde of starving people.

They would only understand fear. Fear and a firm hand.

It was the only way to return order to the city.

“We shall do what we set out to do…to return order to this city,” Jon replied in an imposing tone. “Send out the Unsullied to scour the city for survivors. Explain to them they will receive food and protection if they are prepared to work. And salvage any wood you can find. We need to build pyres to burn the dead.”

“What of the sick ones?” Greyworm asked stoically as ever.

“Custom would dictate to kill them, before they can infect the healthy ones.”

Jon was stunned by Greyworm’s answer, but then he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

 _An Unsullied has to slay a babe on its mother’s breast,_ he recalled.

And Greyworm certainly had a point, but Jon had shed enough blood for one day.

He was no butcher, even if he had soiled his blade with the blood of women and children.

“Leave them be,” Jon replied and winced when he brushed his hand over his side, where one of the rioters had cut him open. It wasn’t a deep cut, but the wound had to be sewn together. “But send those who appear sick to the Temple of Graces. We must keep them away from the healthy ones.”

A common man would have objected, but Greyworm simply tapped his spear on the dusty ground and went to work.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A depressing chapter, I know, but as my grandfather once said: There was is nothing more scary than a horde of starving people. He survived WW2 so he would know a thing about that.
> 
> Another thing that I have noticed. I have been reading some fix-it fanfics for season 8, but are there actually ones that do not bash Jon? I get it, Jon killed Dany, but then ShowDany killed off an entire city. Do people really think that was okay? The way I see it, all of the characters have been raped. I hate the whole MadDany bullshit. I could see bookDany torch people in a battle or something, but never for fun. She fucking chained her dragons just because of one girl! Why do people even consider this bullshit canon or try to fix it? If you want to fix it re-write the entire season or from season 5 onwards. The whole "bell bullshit" needs to be purged and ignored. None of this is canon nor will any of this happen in the books. I am willing to bet on that. ShowDany and ShowJon are not canon. They are just badly-written characters in a third-rate fanfiction that was written by two turds with a big ego. The fact that all the actors and even previous actors obviously had their problems with these two turds makes it only clearer to me that they developed some sort of god-complex in the course of the series. They thought that because they were able to adapt George's material successfully that that also makes them first-class writers, which they are obviously not.
> 
> If I had any abilities in this matter I would re-cut in the entire last two episodes and write new dialog for them. The Mad Dany bullshit would be the first one to go.


	10. The Seacow of Pentos

**Tyrion**

Tyrion had been crammed face-first into a cask, his knees pushed up against his stubby ears. Half the day he had felt the urge to scratch his nose, but sadly there was no room to move.

Truly, it was a fitting place for a man of his small stature.

Jaime would have rolled with laughter if he saw him like this, but his brother was far way, probably gathering troops to take revenge on Stannis Baratheon for murdering their sweet sister and his nephew or as most of the realm would know by now, his lover and incestuous son. Tyrion had no doubt that Stannis Baratheon would make sure that everyone heard the truth about his sister’s affair with her brother, for it would give him the right to murder Tommen and Myrcella without fearing the wrath of the seven or the condemnation of his enemies. Not that Tyrion took Stannis Baratheon for a man who would care about the wrath of the gods. If the rumors were true, Stannis Baratheon had long abandoned his belief in the Seven and had made a witch from Asshai his advisor. Tyrion knew only bits and pieces about this foreign Faith, but he doubted that the High Septon nor the people born in this faith would look favorable about Stannis Baratheon for his disregard of the Seven.

_It matters not_ , Tyrion thought shrugged his shoulders. _What is done cannot be undone._

His sister’s and nephew’s deaths were a great loss for the world, but Jaime, Tommen and Myrcella were a different matter. Jaime had shown Tyrion nothing but brotherly love and his niece and nephew had been as sweet as Cersei had been cruel. Rethinking the turn of events, it had been a good decision to send Myrcella to Dorne, for Tyrion doubted the Martells would hand his niece to Stannis Baratheon. Surely, Doran Martell wouldn’t aide the family that had usurped his nephew’s birthright? No, it was more likely that Doran Martell would declare Myrcella Queen to place his son on the throne beside her. And Tommen…,for him Tyrion feared the most. Shortly, before the Battle of Blackwater his sweet sister had put the boy under Lord Rosby’s protection, but Tyrion had sent Ser Jacelyn Bywater to intercept their party on the road, making sure that his nephew had been put in the custody of a man in Tyrion’s control. All he could hope for was that Ser Jacelyn had made haste to bring his nephew to safety, most preferable to his brother Jaime, who had been sent back to the Westerlands before the battle had begun. Jaime had raged against his father’s orders, blind to their father’s true intentions. Jaime had always been his father’s golden boy and heir. He had sent him to safety while Tyrion had been forced to remain in King’s Landing.

Had Lord Varys not helped him escape he would have found his ugly head placed upon the ramparts of the Red Keep.

_Mayhaps Sansa’s too, though hers would been much prettier to look upon,_ he thought as he was hoisted up, every bounce cracking his head against the bottom of the cask. The world went round and round as the cask was rolled downward, then stopped abruptly. Another cask must have slammed into his, causing Tyrion to draw blood from his lips.

This continued over and over again, until his head was aching from all this rolling and foreign tongues.

Finally, someone pounded on the top of the cask and the lid was opened. Bright light came flooding in and cool touched his skin. It was a blessing.

Tyrion gasped for air and tried to stand on his wobbly feet, but landed face-first on the ground, taking the cask with him.

Once, he had managed to sit up he found a fat man with a forked yellow beard looking down at him.

He also wore a pink bathrobe that could have easily served as a tourney pavilion.

“Ah, the drunken dwarf,” the fat man said and smiled. He had spoken in the Common Tongue.

It sounded like an amused statement, but Tyrion felt the need for mockery to relieve his displeasure. Varys had promised a comfortable travel, but instead he had forced Tyrion to hide away like a common criminal.

Thus, Tyrion sharpened his tongue and graced the fat man with a mocking smile.

“Ah, the rotting sea cow,” he said and spat the blood he had drawn from his lips on the fat man’s feet. “Or should I call you, Magister Ilyrio?”

The fat man giggled like a giddy maid.

“Varys told you about me,” he said and stroked his yellow beard. “I feel honored.”

“Where is Varys?” Tyrion asked as he swept his gaze over the beautiful garden, full of exotic flowers and a small pond. “And Lady Sansa?”

“They arrived safely,” the fat man assured him and wrinkled his nose. “And you will be able to see them during supper, but I won’t have you unless you have taken a bath and donned fresh garments.”

Tyrion frowned at that. It hadn’t been his choice to travel in such an undignified manner.

Still, it was better to get on the fat magister’s good side until he knew what game Varys was playing with him and Lady Sansa.

“I understand,” he replied and dipped his head. “Nobody wants a stinking dwarf in his home!”

Soon after, Tyrion found himself drenched by pleasantly hot water and garbed in fresh garments. They were made of fine silk, just the right size for a child. They had also been worn before, so much he could deduce by the smell and the worn-out collar.

When he was led back into the magister’s garden, he found the fat magister sprawled on a padded couch, feasting on roasted chicken, hot peppers and strange onion-like fruits. In that position he looked even fatter, his pig eyes glittering with amusement as he laid eyes on Tyrion.

“Here,” the fat man said and waved his hands at the two people Tyrion hadn’t seen since their hurried departure from King’s Landing. “As you can see…your travelling companions are well, my Lord Lannister.”

Varys had long changed back into his usual pink robes, the smell of flowers hanging over him like a cloud, but he had scarcely recognized Lady Sansa.

She had donned one of these colorful Pentoshi dresses that left no room for imagination and her hair had been painted black. She was a feast for the eyes and the pleasure of beholding her beauty stirred his cock to life, though thinking of Shae’s unknown fate helped to forget about these inappropriate feelings. He had tasked Bronn to bring her to safety, but that didn’t mean she had made it out of the city.

“My Lord Lannister,” Lord Varys tittered sweetly as ever as he dipped his head. “I hope your travel wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“I have travelled better,” Tyrion replied, keeping his displeasure to himself as he marched towards the table. Lady Sansa’s pale blue gaze followed him, the blue-red bruises on her cheeks nearly gone. The poor girl had been so delighted to wed his depraved nephew, but that had changed quickly after their wedding. Tyrion hadn’t been there, but one of his nephew’s servants had implied to Tyrion that the King had been unable to fulfil his duties in the marriage bed and had blamed his lack of prowess on his wife’s lack of appeal. At first, Tyrion had thought it a bad jape, for the servants had never held much love for his nephew, but now he knew that it hadn’t been a lie. Joff had indeed been unable to fulfil his duties and had therefore unleashed his anger and frustration upon his young wife.

_Joff was always a fool_ , Tyrion thought as his gaze darted to the girl’s small and firm breasts, hidden behind a silken chemise. Sansa Stark was a beauty. Truly, no normal man would have had a problem to bury his cock between those silken legs, but a depraved little shit like Joff.

“You look well, my lady,” Tyrion remarked and graced her with a smile, though it showed not much effect on the girl. “I suppose your travel was kinder than mine?”

Lady Sansa didn’t answer at first, but looked as if she was about to wrinkle her nose, but stopped herself in the last moment.

Tyrion should feel insulted, but he had long gotten used to such reactions.

And yet Lady Sansa quickly regained her lady-like composure and forced a smile over her lips.

“It was pleasant enough,” she said sweetly and lifted her head to look at Lord Varys. “Lord Varys made sure that we had a comfortable travel.”

“Come and sit, little friend,” the fat magister added and waved his hand at the empty seat between Varys and Lady Sansa. “We have much to talk about.”

“First I need something to wet my throat,” Tyrion explained and picked up the flagon of wine placed in the middle of the table. Without hesitation he opened the bottle and poured crimson summer wine into his golden cup.

He sighed and closed his eyes when the sweet liquid touched his lips. This was even better than to bury his cock in Shae’s cunt. This was paradise.

“The wine is to your taste, isn’t it?” Lord Varys asked in amusement and picked the cup from Tyrion’s hands. “Arbor Gold is always the best, though the Dornish wines are not bad either. What do you think, my Lady?”

“The wine is sweet enough,” Lady Sansa replied quietly and shifted her attention to the broth of crab and monkfish that had been served by one of the many naked servant boys running about in this mansion. Why a rich man like Illyrio was unable to dress his servants properly mystified Tyrion, but mayhaps he the fat man simply liked to watch naked bottoms.

“I agree,” Tyrion added his voice. “The wine needs a bit more honey.”

“Honey you will have, my little friend” the fat magister cheered and waved his hand at one of the servant boys. “Nobody will say that Illyrio is not a generous host!”

Not long after, the same servant boy returned with a cup of honey. The sight coaxed a smile from Lady Sansa’s lips, but it faded as quickly as the morning mist.

“Now, let’s eat, my friends!” the fat magister declared and clapped his hands together. “And then we shall speak about the future.

Tyrion didn’t need any further invitation and devoured the cup quickly. Then, came quails in honey, goose livers dipped in white sauce, buttered lobster and a bowl of suckling pig accompanied by red peppers.

“Now that we all had a piece of lemon cake we can speak about the future,” Tyrion broke the silence that had settled over them during their meal. He had never been a patient man and wanted to know why Lord Varys and this magister had saved him and Lady Sansa. He doubted their motives were as altruistic as they wanted to appear.

Magister Illyrio chuckled and exchanged a smile with Lord Varys.

“This very morning news from the east reached my ears. They say that Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen have fallen.”

“Slaver’s Bay is far away from Pentos,” he stated and frowned. “Why would you care?”

“Why not?” the magister teased and bared his ugly yellow teeth to the world. “I am a merchant and I always have to keep a close eye on such new developments. The fall of the Slaver Cities’ will have a great effect on the market, though there is another reason I am interested in these recent events. Do you know who sacked these cities?”

Tyrion frowned again and gulped down another cup of wine. He hated guessing games and was incredibly tired. He longed for a soft bed and perhaps another bath.

“Who?”

The answer came promptly and suddenly everything was much clearer.

“There was once a girl I harbored in my home…Princess Daenerys Targaryen, the Mad King’s daughter.”

“I heard of her,” Tyrion confirmed. “Not long ago my good-brother King Robert wanted to kill her and her unborn babe. I thought she had died. Well, it seems that was another one of his many failures.”

“Robert was a poor King,” Varys admitted in an almost sorrowful tone, though Tyrion noticed the mockery beneath his façade of sweetness. “Lord Arryn had such high hopes for him, but instead of ruling he preferred to roll from one whore to the next, leaving the realm in dire need.”

Realization hit Tyrion and his eyes met Lady Sansa’s who had observed their exchange in silence.

_Could it be_ …, he wondered and smiled.  _Is that why the fat magister is interested in the Mad King’s daughter?_

“Robert was a fool,” Tyrion agreed and shifted his attention back to Varys. “But he was still better than Joff and what came before him. Well, he was never particularly fond of me nor of my family.”

“Joff was not his son,” Lady Sansa added quietly, her eyes wet with sudden tears. “He was a bastard all along, wasn’t he? My father told the truth, didn’t he?”

She was visibly begging him for the truth and for whatever reason Tyrion couldn’t help but to answer honestly.

“He was,” Tyrion confirmed. “He was a bastard, but, but that had nothing to do with his rotten nature. Even trueborn he would have been a monster to be feared.”

“I should have known better,” Lady Sansa choked out her answer and brushed her tears away. “I was a foolish girl.”

Tyrion felt the urge to say something comforting, but he felt that he lacked the right words. He still tried his best.

“Joff was good at fooling people,” he told her. “He even managed to fool my sister into thinking that he was a normal child.”

“A grave miscalculation,” Varys added with obvious amusement. “Well, now King Stannis sits the throne, though I doubt his reign will last long. His witch will earn him many enemies.”

“My brother will kill him first,” Tyrion promised. “Jaime will never forgive the murder of my sister. Well, that is if he is still alive. Then, there are still Tommen and Myrcella.”

“Prince Tommen is dead,” Illyrio informed him as he poured himself fresh wine. He feigned sadness, but it was no comfort to Tyrion, who felt as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice water over his head. “Lord Rosby sold the poor boy out to King Stannis and was sentenced to death for his actions. At least, that is what the rumors say.”

Tyrion drowned another cup, hoping it would dry away his guilt, but the waves roared higher, threatening to overwhelm him.

Only when he heard Lady Sansa’s soft whimpering did he come back to himself.

He looked at her and found her head buried between her hands.

Her reaction didn’t surprise Tyrion. Tommen had been fond of her and she of him.

“Well, then…there is still Myrcella,” Tyrion added, though he knew that the magister had already set his eyes on another person. It must be the Mad King’s daughter. Why else bring her up? “She is a sweet girl, but I doubt anyone will see her as a Queen now that the realm knows about my sister’s shame.”

“Well put, my Lord Lannister,” Lord Varys added approvingly and rubbed his hands. “And that is why we will soon travel to Volantis.”

This roused Tyrion’s curiosity. Lady Sansa seemed to share his feelings, for she had stopped weeping, her red-rimmed eyes watching Lord Varys warily.

“Why Volantis? I thought the Mad King’s daughter took Slaver’s Bay?”

“You are an impatient little man, my Lord Lannister,” the fat magister added and laughed boisterously. “But sadly, I can’t tell you. This will be another surprise.”

Tyrion didn’t know what to make of the fat magister’s words, but it wasn’t like he had anything to lose. Without Varys’ help he would have died and there was always a chance to turn one’s cloak…

Thus, he lifted his cup and graced the fat magister with a warm smile.

“I like surprises as much as the next men.”

The magister howled with laughter, the red summer wine spilling on his silken robe.

“Ah, you are a man after my heart, my little friend!”

_I am not your friend_ , he thought and continued to smile. _And do not think that I will ever be one, my fat friend. You may have saved my life, but I refuse to be a pawn in your game..._

…


	11. Enemies at the Gates

**Jon**

 The Temple of the Graces was a huge structure topped with golden domes.

It had once been a building of unsurpassed beauty and dedicated to the worship of the gods, but now it was a symbol of Astapor’s demise.

Jon had to shield his mouth with his cloak to shield himself against the sharp smell filling his nose. It was a mixture of sweat, shit and the flowery incense the blue-roped graces were spreading everywhere.

Yet it was the sound of the dying that affected Jon the most. While he had served the Stormcrows he had seen men and boys of all perish, but this was different.

Most of these people were women and children.

Jon had heard about the “Bloody Flux” before and some of their men had been stricken by a bout of this sickness while they were campaigning in Myr, but this was much worse.

Here in Astapor thousands of people are suffering from the plague.

“Are you sure that it is the Bloody Flux?” he asked one of the blue-veiled girls who served as healers in the Temple of Graces, though just had to look at the sick to know that it was true.

The common symptoms of this particular sickness could be witnessed everywhere he looked: watery and bloody stool, vomiting, wrinkled skin and extreme thirst.

“There is no doubt,” the blue-veiled girl replied and lead them along the rows packed with people. Their feverish eyes followed after Jon and Greyworm as if they hoped they had an answer to their suffering. Jon could barely look at them. “The gods are punishing us for our sins.”

“How many?” he inquired further, trying to distract himself from the suffering. “How many of these people will make it?”

“One in four will survive,” the blue-veiled girl explained to Jon as she stopped near an unmoving woman. The pink-veiled girls that had followed after them at a respectful distance quickly dragged the dead corpse out to the large plaza where the Unsullied and the still healthy freedmen had erected pyres to burn the death.

Day and night the fires had burned, filling the air with the sweet smell of burned flesh. By now Jon had grown numb to the smell, but that was not the worst of it all.

A day ago, the outriders he had sent out to scour the lands surrounding Astapor, had brought dark tidings about ships filled with an army of Ghiscari legions and sellsword companies.

When Jon had been informed about the numbers he had felt his stomach flutter. New Ghis had sent two legions and two sellsword companies, namely the Windblown under the command of the illustrious Tattered Prince and the Company of the Cat, led by a man that was commonly known as Bloodbeard. Jon had never personally met this Tattered Prince or this Bloodbeard, but he had heard plenty of stories about them from Daario and the other Stormcrows. He was known to have a ferocious appetite for slaughter, wine and women, though that certainly wasn’t an uncommon characteristic for a sellsword. On the other hand, the Tattered Prince was famous for another reason. Many years ago, he had nearly been appointed to the office of Prince of Pentos, but instead of accepting this position and thus become a puppet to the magisters, he had fled to the Disputed Lands taking up the life of a sellsword. He had supposedly served in almost all of the known sellsword companies and had eventually founded his own company the Windblown. They were known for their blood feud with the Company of the Cat, which made it all the more surprising to Jon that they were riding the same banner…

 _It matters not_ , Jon reminded himself and swept his gaze over the ever-growing crowd of people. He had barely one-thousand Unsullied and five-hundred freedmen at his deposal. No matter how often he pondered the problem, there was no way they would be able defeat an enemy of this size. Defeating the legions from New Ghis was certainly possible, but the sellswords had horses and well-trained archers. Not even the discipline of the Unsullied would be enough to face them in a direct battle and a siege would lead to the certain death of even more people. No, Jon had no other choice but to abandon the city. At least that way he could save some of the freed men and take them safely to Yunkai.

“And how many are on the way to recovery?” Jon asked, though he could have just looked at the starving children and the whimpering women to receive an answer. Most of these people would never see the next day, let alone be able to march all the way back to Meereen. “Can you tell?”

The blue-veiled girl’s head snapped back at him with the quickness of a whip.

“I think I can,” she said, her green eyes narrowed in distrust. “Why?”

Jon couldn’t bring himself to answer, fresh bile rising up inside his throat as he thought about what they were planning to do. Greyworm and he had discussed the matter back and forth, but in the end they had come to the same decision…

“You must separate those who are doomed from those who still have a chance of recovery,” Jon explained, his gaze flickering to Greyworm who had listened to their exchange in silence. “And then you must tell your sisters to pack their things. We are going to abandon Astapor and march for Yunkai.”

The young woman’s eyes widened in shock. Jon could hear her quick breathing and saw the fear in her eyes.

“We cannot,” the blue-veiled girl replied in a trembling voice. “The Green Grace will not agree to this.”

“The Green Grace can hump a horse for all I care,” Jon told the girl, his temper rising. By now, Jon had called for said woman a good hundreds of times, but every time he had been refused. He had no time for such silly games. “Nobody forces her to follow me nor your sisters, but this city is lost and only death will await those who decide to linger here. This I can promise you.”

The young woman stared back at him in stunned silence, but reason eventually triumphed over fear.

“I understand,” she said. “When will we march?”

“By sunrise,” Jon replied. “Send those who you deem healthy enough to the Plaza of Punishment. The others…,” Jon continued to explain, his voice failing him momentarily. He had been so prideful when he had told his Aunt to execute these child hostages, but now that he had to play the executioner he felt as if a strange terror had taken hold of him. Killing a hostage was one thing, but killing women and children who were hoping for his help was a different matter.

“The others…those for whom all hope is lost…keep them here…,” Jon stuttered like a green boy as he searched the girl’s green eyes. “Do you understand?”

It didn’t take long before the young girl started to tremble after she realized what Jon Snow had implied.

Yet they couldn’t afford doubt.

“Do you understand?” Jon repeated his question more sharply.

“You can’t…,” the girl stuttered, but Jon pulled on her arm, making clear to her that this was not a matter of debate. “And what other choice do we have? As you said yourself…most of these people won’t see the next day. Why make them suffer unnecessarily? Or do you think the enemy will show them mercy?”

“They won’t,” Greyworm added his voice and searched the girl’s face. “The Masters will slaughter them like sheep.”

Then, he freed the sword fastened at his belt and showed the young woman the polished blade. “This is mercy.”

The girl trembled, but Jon needed to make clear to her that nobody could know about their true intentions. “Nobody can know about this and if you betray us I will cut out your tongue before killing you too. Do you understand?”

The girl froze, her green eyes widening in surprise.

“Do you understand?” Jon asked threateningly.

Finally, the girl nodded her head, her green eyes filled with disgust.

 _Will may Aunt also at me like that when she finds out_ , he wondered but brushed these thoughts away before they could take hold of his mind.

“I understand,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I shall do as you ask. When will it be done?”

“After sunset,” Greyworm replied for Jon after he had stared silently at the young woman for a good dozen of heartbeats. “Be ready.”

No further word was spoken as Jon and Greyworm returned to the stepped pyramid where he, Greyworm, the other Unsullied sub-commanders and Marselen, the leader of the freed men who were commonly known as the Mother’s Men, had taken residence.

The ever-present smell of smoke-filled Jon’s nose as he entered. It was a spacious chamber made of pink marble and covered with colorful depictions of exotic flowers and naked maidens.

Otherwise there was not much left of the beauty of this place. The food and the furniture had been destroyed, some of it salvaged to feed the flames.

“An outrider has come,” Pink Elephant informed Jon without warning. He was a year younger than Greyworm and one of the three sub-commanders leading the Unsullied. “He says the enemy is preparing to march.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath and sought Ghost, who was still sprawled on the ground where he had left him earlier. He truly could be a lazy bud, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to rouse him from his sweet slumber. He needed rest.

“I see. Well, it matters not. We are almost done, aren’t we? The wine has been prepared and the bodies have been dumped into the wells. The only task that is left to us is…” Jon continued, his voice failing him.

“You don't have to do it,” Greyworm replied, his gaze hard and unyielding. “The Unsullied were trained for such bloody business.”

Jon knew what Greyworm was trying to do.

He was offering Jon an easy way out, but to Jon that would feel wrong.

Jon would feel like a coward if he left it to the Unsullied.

No, this was also his responsibility to bear, no matter how painful it would be.

“My fath…my Uncle has a saying,” Jon countered and graced Greyworm with sad smile. “A man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

...


	12. Lady Jenny

**Jenny**

It was the upward movement of the litter that woke Sansa from her slumber.

She rubbed her eyes and turned around on her pile of cushions to get a view at the Magister and Lord Tyrion.

At times, it was hard for her to believe that someone could be this fat. Sansa had always thought that Lord Manderly had been the fattest man she had ever laid eyes on, but his size was nothing against the magister.

“I see, you are finally awake my lady. Please wait here,” the magister tittered sweetly and bared his yellow teeth. Sweating and moaning, he lifted his massive body into the air and crawled out of the litter. It had looked like an ox drawing an overloaded cart.

Sansa herself felt hot, the sweat clinging to her brow and her naked skin. She had spent a year in the south, but she had never gotten used to the heat. Here in the Free Cities it was even worse, though she was rather here than back in King’s Landing. She doubted King Stannis would have killed her, but who knows what his men would have done to her in the heat of battle.

Stannis might have kept me as a hostage or wed me to one of his bannermen. Or would he have given me to his red witch?

Tyrion and Lord Varys had spoken about the red witch in hushed whispers and many more things she wasn’t supposed to hear. She had asked when she would be allowed to go home, but so far they had only given her sweet words of nothing.

All she knew was that they were going somewhere. That the magister had mentioned Princess Daenerys Targaryen had been her only hint, but she didn’t know what to make of that either. Her Lord Father had fought the Targaryens after Prince Rhaegar, the Last Dragon, had raped and abducted her Aunt Lady Lyanna Stark, though that had certainly not been the cause of the Rebellion. The cause had been the vile execution of her Uncle Brandon and her Grandfather Lord Rickard Stark. In the end, Robert Baratheon had slain Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident and Tywin Lannister had sacked the city of King’s Landing. Some say that the Mountain had slain Princess Elia and her children and others say that she had committed suicide and smothered her babes before they could fall into the hands of the enemy. Even her father had never told her the full truth. In fact, he had rarely spoken of the past or the Rebellion as if it was too much for him to bear.

_Daenerys Targaryen is just a girl like me_ , she tried to assure herself. She must have been a babe during the rebellion or so Sansa believed. And yet the same girl had supposedly sacked cities and had woken dragons from stone.

_Dragons made Torrhen bow before Aegon_ , she recalled from her history lessons. Arya would have burst with excitement to see a living dragon, but Sansa felt only fear when she thought of confronting a fire-breathing creature.

_They can’t be worse than Joff_ , she thought and touched her cheek. She had loved him once with all her heart. Oh, how stupid she felt now after she had realized the bitter truth.

It had been a lie. Joff had been no brave and good Prince. He had been a monster and his love for her had never been true.

A good husband wouldn’t treated her gently. The first time, she had hit her she had wept, the second time she had apologized, but the third time, when Joff hadn’t been able to consummate their marriage even after having a whore run naked through her chamber, she had hadn’t been able to hold back her laughter. For that, he had had hit her in the face, something he had usually avoided in the past.

_I don’t want an ugly bride_ , he had told her then, but even her beauty hadn’t been enough to stir his desire.

Now she was glad that he hadn’t been able to take her maidenhead…

It had been the rasping sound of Lord Tyrion’s breathing and the foreign voices from outside that called her back to the present.

She forced a smile over her lips when Lord Tyrion’s strangely-colored eyes met hers, his mob of hair in complete disarray.

“Were you blessed with sweet dreams, my lord?” she asked.

He graced her with a twisted smile and rubbed his head.

“No, I was blessed with nightmares of green fire, but now that I am seeing your face I feel much better, my lady.”

If Tyrion Lannister had been half as handsome as Joff she might have blushed, but his ugliness made such feelings impossible.

And yet, she found that she didn’t disliked him as a person. She certainly didn’t trust him, but he had been kinder to her than any other member of his family. That was a truth she couldn’t deny.

Thus, she decided to favor him with an honest smile.

“I am pleased if my presence is a comfort to you, my Lord.”

Her words seemed to please Lord Tyrion, for he grinned and swung his stubby legs through the curtains, disappearing a moment later.

Sansa didn’t follow him, but leaned forward to glimpse through the curtains.

Outside she spotted Magister Illyrio standing next to two horses, mounted by two large riders. Both wore skirts of worn leather beneath cloaks of brown wool.

The magister smiled at lord Tyrion as he passed them. Sansa blushed when she noticed that he was undoing his breeches and averted her gaze quickly. It made her think of the one time she had seen Theon Greyjoy naked. She, Arya, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassle had wanted to take a bath in the hotsprings and had come about Theon and one of the servant girls. Sansa had long forgotten the girl’s name, but Theon had been naked as his nameday, brazen smile curling on his lips when he had noticed their presence. Sansa recalled now how embarrassed her and Jeyne had been while Beth had only giggled and Arya had howled with laughter. Her little sister had even told Theon to put his “worm” away…

“Pissing is the least of my talents,” she heard Lord Tyrion brag while the men on the horses laughed.

The bright sunlight made her eyes burn and it took her a moment to adjust to her new surroundings. The green summer dress she had chosen was wide and pleasant to wear, but the blue shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders was beginning to bother her. And yet she didn’t wish to reveal her bosom in such a base manner. If she had had the time she would have changed the dress to her liking.

“Are these two known to you, magister?” Lord Tyrion asked brazen as ever while Sansa decided to keep a respectful distance. They had their swords sheathed, but they looked like dangerous men. “They look like outlaws to me. Do you want me to fetch my axe?”

They gave him stunned looks and Lord Tyrion graced them with one of his twisted smiles.

“Your axe?” asked the brawnier of the two. He had a shaggy beard and a shock of orange hair. “Did you hear what the dwarf said? He wants to fight us!”

The other rider, was clean-shaved and graced with a lined and ascetic face. His brown hair was pulled back from his head and tied in a knot behind his back.

He seemed to hold only scorn for Lord Tyrion’s boasting.

“Small men often feel the need to prove their courage with boasting,” the man snapped back. “I doubt the little man could even kill a duck.”

Tyrion shrugged his shoulders as if it insult meant nothing to him.

“Fetch the duck,” Lord Tyrion replied in a challenging tone.

“If you insist,” the older rider replied and bared his teeth as she jerked his head at his brawny companion.

The man’s grin widened he unsheathed his sword.

“I am Duck, little man,” he introduced himself.

Lord Tyrion continue to grin despite the obvious threat. “I had a smaller duck in mind.”

Sansa sighed with relief when the big man roared with laughter. It helped her to overcome her fear and she stepped towards the men, unwinding her shawl as she walked. The heat had grown unbearable to her.

“Did you hear, Haldon?” the man with the orange hair asked, his face deeply flushed. He was about to say more, but when his gaze fell upon her or better said her bosom he fell silent.

“Good work, my lady,” the older man remarked and met her gaze. “You managed to silence the duck.”

Then, he flashed his companion a disapproving look. “Keep your eyes elsewhere, Rolly. She is the magister’s guest…just like his little friend there.”

Sansa, who had no idea how to interact with these kinds of men, dropped her head in greeting and smiled.

“I am Lady Jenny,” she introduced herself. It was the name she had used while residing in the magister’s mansion. “A pleasure to meet you, my brave knights.”

“Well met, my Lady. I am Haldon Halfmaester and the fool over there is Ser Rolly Duckfield,” the older man explained and waved his hand at the blushing man with the orange hair.

_Men are fools, little bird_ , Queen Cersei had told her before her marriage to Joff.  _They do not think with their minds, but with their little cocks. Show them a bit of flesh and They will be yours._

Cersei had been right, but she was dead now, her head mounted atop the ramparts of the Red Keep. Sansa didn’t know if she take advice from a Queen who lost her head.

“Enough jesting, my friends,” the magister’s tittering voice snapped her back to the present. “Your travel will be long, won’t it?”

“Aye,” the one called Haldon agreed. “We have pack horses. Duck, attend to that.”

The man named Duck or Rolly frowned in obvious displeasure.

“Why is it always Duck who has to attend to things?” he asked and sheathed his blade. I am a knight…It should be you serving me!”

Yet he still obeyed and stomped away towards the baggage train.

“How fares our lad?” the magister asked Haldon while Ser Rolly was loading their chests upon the pack horses.

Haldon smiled proudly.

“He is now nearly as tall as Griff. Three days ago he knocked Duck from his horse. A fine lad he has grown into.”

The magister smiled warmly.

“I put a gift in the chests,” the magister added, his smile fading. He looked sad. “Some candied ginger. He was always fond of it, but I know that you must hurry before it becomes impossible to reach Meereen. I managed to procure you a ship, but it will still be a dangerous travel.”

“But worth it,” Haldon replied determinedly. “We must find the Princess before hit is too late. What about Lord Varys? Where is he?”

“He left for Myr,” the magister explained. “To win the gold coins to our cause.”

“That is good,” Duck said and grinned. “Soon we shall go home. It will be worth it in the end.”

Sansa didn’t know what to make of their words and exchanged a quiet glance with Tyrion.

“Of course,” Tyrion replied and played along as if he knew what they were talking about. Then, he dipped his head. “By the way, I am Hugor Hill.”

“A bastard,” Haldon remarked and eyed Sansa curiously. “And who are you? I forgot to ask for your name. Are you his lady of the heart? Or perhaps a courtesan? Well, your accent tells me something different. I think you are from Westeros.”

“The Lady Jenny is of highborn blood,” Illyrio came to her aid. “She is no bed toy.”

“I see,” Haldon replied in understanding and patted the saddle before him. “Then, you shall ride with me, girl. I am half a Maester. I shan’t take your maidenly virtue. The dwarf can ride with Duck.”

Sansa’s cheeks burned, but it was better than to ride with the Duck, who was still throwing hopeful looks at her.

“I thank you,” she agreed and took his hand. He lifted her in the saddle as if she was a little child. Seeing him up close, she realized that he must be her father’s age.

Thinking of her father made her sad.

I betrayed him.

“Let’s go!” Duck exclaimed happily and hoisted Lord Tyrion into his arms. Before Ser Rolly grabbed the reins of his horse he flashed Lord Tyrion another smile. “Hold tight to the pommel of my sword, my little friend.”

Then, he kicked his feet in the sides of his horse, before setting off into a gallop.

“Safe travels, my friends,” the magister called after them. “Tell the boy I am sorry that I will not be able to attend to his wedding. I shall soon join you in Westeros, this I swear, by my sweet Serra’s hands.”

The magister had sounded so distraught that Sansa was surprised he didn’t break out in tears.

His words of departure had confused her even more. Who was this “lad” the magister had spoken about? Was he his son? And what had all of this to do with Princess Daenerys’ Targaryen?”

Sansa cast her gaze back at the magister as they set off unto the next part of their travel. He stood there with slumped shoulders, his brocade robe blowing in the wind like a flag, until disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Sansa clung to Haldon, her eyes burning from the whirled-up dust. Ser Rolly soon caught up with them and was from thereon riding next to them.

Sansa tried to listen to their lengthy conversations, but her eyes were soon growing heavy and eventually she drifted off to sleep. The last thing she heard was how Ser Rolly had ended up in the Golden Company and how he had squired for someone called Harry Strickland…

It was midday when she was roused from her sleep. They made camp near a thin river and watered their horses. Sprouts of brown grass and weed could be found between the cobbled street and there was a mossy wall that might have once belonged to a manse.

Afterwards they shared a simple meal. Salted pork and dried meat, washed down with bitter ale that made Sansa choke.

Once, she had finished her meal she decided to go for a walk. She stretched her legs and enjoyed the cool breeze coming from the east. When she grew bored she went to the horses and fed them with grass.

All the while her travelling companion were talking about the armor and the fine garments the magister had acquired for them.

Sansa was not surprised. She had watched the servants stuff the chests with fine woolen doublets, velvet cloaks and silken pants.

By dusk they were back in their saddles, moving further eastward, a starry sky spreading as far as the eye could see.

Sansa’s grew heavy again when Lord Tyrion was sharing a story about a man called Lomas Longstrider, who had been a traveler and some sort of hero of Lord Tyrion. Sansa had never been an avid reader, but Bran loved stories and had always dreamed of travelling the world. Arya had promised to accompany him and Sansa had called her stupid.  _A lady cannot travel the world_ , she had chided her.  _A lady needs to wed._

Thinking of Arya made her sad again. She had been horrible to her and she regretted that now. Yet the worst of all was…she didn’t even know if she was still alive.

Yet these dark thoughts were soon banished from her mind and exchanged with far more worldly concerns, namely her wound bottom.

When morning came she realized that she had fallen asleep again and that they had ridden throughout the whole night.

“The fabled Rhoyne,” Lord Tyrion declared and pointed at the glow green waterway in the distance.

Ser Rolly shook his head.

“The Little Rhoyne,” the young knight corrected Lord Tyrion with a smile, the walls of a city looming in the distance.

As they continued onwards, Lord Tyrion and Ser Rolly blew kisses at naked girls bathing in the muddy water until they reached a crumbling temple and behind it an old palace half sunken into the earth and covered with gnarled old willow roots. Beyond the tangled roots, the road ended abruptly until the thick shrubbery gave away and they suddenly found themselves beside an old stone quay.

“Duck!” came an elated shout. “Haldon!”

Sansa’s head snapped around and soon found the owner of this voice. There, standing on the roof of a low wooden building was a boy, waving a straw head. He was a well-made youth with a lanky built and a shock dark-blue hair. He was older than Sansa, around Robb’s and Jon’s age.

As they drew closer, the roof the boy was standing on turned out to be the cabin of a ship, which as Haldon informed them a moment later was called the  _Shy Maid_. It was an old poleboat, or so Tyrion explained to her. Sansa found it ugly. The paintwork was a muddy greyish brown, mottled and flaking; It looked dirty and was in dire need of a good wash, but Sansa kept these thoughts to herself as she followed after her travelling companions.

Soon the crew of the boat made their appearance.

There was an older pair standing beside the tiller and a white-robed Septa, who had flashed a smile at the boy as she had passed, was now coming their way.

She was neither tall nor short, her face long and her short light-brown hair slightly curled at the edge.

Sansa was about to introduce herself when a booming voice filled her ears.

“That will be enough shouting for today!” the man shouted as he burst through the door. He was tall, had a clean-shaved face and bright-blue eyes underlined with wrinkles. His hair was as blue as the boy’s hair, but his hair had red roots and even redder eyebrows.

His gaze was icy cold as it took in Sansa and then Lord Tyrion.

Sansa couldn’t help but to shudder. She didn’t know why, but the way this man was carrying himself reminded her of Lord Tywin Lannister.

Sansa was relieved he directed his displeasure at Lord Tyrion.

“A dwarf,” he said full of contempt. “Why did you bring him here?”

“I know, you were hoping for a seacow,” Lord Tyrion quipped and shifted his attention to the boy who had long crawled from the roof and was eying them curiously.

“Blue hair will not serve in Westeros, my boy,” he teased the boy. “The girls will laugh into your face.”

The boy’s reaction could only be described as stunned.

“My Lady Mother was from Tyrosh,” the boy replied after he had regained his composure. “I dye it in memory of her.”

“What is this creature? Is he going to be our fool?” the grim man demanded to know and interrupted their exchange, his gaze flickering to Sansa. “And who is the girl? Did the cheesmonger send the girl to become the boy’s bedwarmer?”

“Calm yourself, Griff,” Haldon countered calmly. “Let us speak in private and I shall explain their presence.”

“Come then,” the grim man relented and pointed at the open door of the cabin. “Let us speak.”

Haldon sighed and she was about to follow after them, but Ser Rolly held her back.

“Only the dwarf,” Ser Rolly explained and graced her with a sweet smile. “Illyrio tasked us to keep you from harm, my Lady. I fear Griff will not hold back.”

Sansa sighed in disappointment. She was somewhere far away from home and now she had had to stay with these strange people.

_Could it be true_ , she wondered fearfully and eyed Ser Rolly and then the blue-haired boy.  _Did they bring her here to put her into the boy’s bed?_

She averted her gaze quickly when the boy’s bluish gaze sought hers.

“What is your name, girl?” he demanded to know. The way he had said it reminded her a bit of Joff, but she saw none of Joff’s cruelty in him. Mayhaps he was only a boy without manners, but then he didn’t know who she really was. He was just some boy on a poleboat. How could she expect courtly manners from him?

“Lady Jenny,” she replied and lowered her head in greeting. “And you are…Young Griff?”

She had heard the Septa call him that.

 “It is a great pleasure to meet you,” the boy replied suddenly and stepped closer to take her hand in his own, before placing a kiss on her knuckles.

_Mayhaps I misjudged him_ , she thought and forced a smile over her lips. She was among strangers. It was better to make them her friends than her enemies.

“Lady Jenny,” repeated the Septa, who had observed their conversation in silence. “Where to you hail from if I may ask?”

Sansa knew it would be futile to hide her Westerosi accent.

“The North.”

“I knew it,” the Septa said and smiled warmly. “I am Septa Lemore. Well met, my Lady Jenny. Care to keep us company while Griff sorts out he business with your little companion?”

“His name is Hugor Hill,” she lied and glanced at the door, the loud shouting scaring her. “The man…Old Griff, isn’t it? He won’t hurt him, won’t he?”

“He won’t,” the boy promised quickly and gave her an assuring smile. “I shall make him stop at once.”

He was about to run off, but the Septa grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back.

“You will leave him be,” she chided him and pointed at Lady Sansa. “Griff won’t harm a man sent by Illyrio. In the meantime, we could entertain Lady Jenny.”

The boy seemed unhappy with the Septa’s command, but obeyed.

Then, he craned his neck and smiled at Sansa.

“Do you know how to fish, my Lady?”

Sansa, who had never been asked such a question by a boy, simply nodded her head in acknowledgement.

“I fear not.”

The Septa elbowed the boy and grinned proudly.

Not long after, they were putting small worms on hooks and put them into the green water. Well, the boy and the Septa did it, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to touch these worms. Just looking at them made he want to empty her stomach into the water.

It made her wish that she was a little bit like Arya.

“So, are truly a Lady?” the Septa remarked after she had lowered her bait into the water. “Your hands are so soft. Are you the daughter of a Lord?”

“A bastard,” she replied quickly and averted her gaze. “My name is Snow. Jenny Snow.”

Sansa didn’t know why, but in he blink of a moment the Septa’s face had turned as pale as ash.

“Are you well?” the boy asked sweetly and patted her shoulder. “Do you want me to call for the Halfmaster?”

“I am well,” the Septa assured the boy and sucked in a deep breath, before searching Sansa’s gaze.

Sansa couldn’t help but to squirm under her intense stare. From the distance the Septa’s eyes had looked blue, but seeing her close up she realized that they were grey. The almond-shaped form of the Septa’s eyes reminded her a little of her sister Arya, but her eyes were much darker and the woman in front of her was quite the beauty and not a horsefaced little girl like her younger sister.

“You don’t want to tell me,” the Septa said then, a sad smile curling on her pale lips as her gaze darted back to her bait. Suddenly, she grinned, all sadness forgotten. “Ah, I caught our supper!”

“Wonderful!” the boy exclaimed. “I am sick and tired of broth.”

Sansa watched in silence as the boy and the Septa pulled the fish out of the water, their smiles growing only wider as they took in the silver fish dotted with purple streaks.

Sansa’s stomach growled at the sight of the fish.

“This is purple salmon,” the boy explained while the Septa conjured a small dagger from beneath her robes.

Sansa was shocked, but when the Septa started to cut apart the fish she couldn’t help but to be slightly impressed. She had never seen a Septa wield a dagger with such efficiency, but perhaps that was an ability one needed to master to survive such a rough life.

It didn’t take long before the Septa was done and led them into the ship.

As promised, she found Lord Tyrion unharmed and seated at the table with Ser Rolly.

Ser Rolly’s eyes widened when he saw the fish.

“Supper,” he said and patted his stomach. “Be quick about it, Lemore. We are all starving.”

“Be patient, Rolly,” the Septa chided him and  stepped towards the small fireplace. There she started to roast the fish over a cookfire while listening to the men’s talk.

They talked about the weather and exchanged further pleasantries until the grim man Old Griff joined them.

“Supper is nearly ready,” The Septa informed the grim man, but he ignored her and shifted his attention to the boy.

 “It is time, my boy,” he announced, his voice trembling with emotions. “We shall soon depart for Meereen to collect your bride.”

…


	13. A Promise of Fire and Blood

**Daenerys**

Every day, after breaking her fast Dany counted the ships arriving at Slaver’s Bay. It made her think back on her time in Pentos’ when she had dreamed of sailing back to her home across the Narrow Sea.

Today she had counted five-and-twenty, but she wasn’t sure. They were too far away to be sure.

Not that it mattered. All traded had stopped since she had taken Meereen for her own. Matters had turned only worse after Xaro’s departure. These ships from Qarth, Tolos and Ghis had arrived.

“Free the dragons,” Admiral Groleo told her for the hundred time. “Let them have a taste of dragonfire and the trade will flow again.”

Dany knew he was right, but she had no control over her children. Drogon was gone and the other spat fire at her whenever she tried to get close to them.

 _They are angry that I abandoned them_ , she thought.  _They have every right to hate me._

Yet she couldn’t share these thoughts with her Admiral.

“Can’t we build ships?” she asked instead, knowing very well how silly that sounded. The woods around Meereen had been burned. There was no wood left to build ships. “But you would have to ride into the hinterlands. I shall give you wagons, workers, mules, everything you need to fulfil this task.”

“I am not a shipbuilder,” the captain complained, his voice laced with bitterness.

His bitterness filled her with fear. Could he be the one that will betray me?

 _No_ , she thought and banished these thoughts from her mind. _He is only an old man._

“There must be something we can do,” she replied weakly and shifted her attention back to the ships.

“There is something we can do, your Grace. Let fire rain from the skies…,” he began, but fell silent when Dany flashed him a sharp look.

“Leave me now,” she told him, softening her voice after she had heard his sadness. “And pray for your gods to send us a storm.”

“No true sailor would ever wish for a storm, your Grace,” the old Admiral replied and excused himself, leaving only Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Our stores are filled and your Grace’s subjects have planted beans, grapes and wheat. The masters have also been driven out of the hinterlands and freed the rest of the slaves. They are now adding their strength to freedmen of Meereen. Daario Naharis has also won the friendship of the Lhazareen.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “But at the end of the day they are just Lamb men. I just wish they have sharp teeth, like Jon’s wolf.”

“That would certainly help, your Grace,” Ser Barristan agreed with a wry smile.

The old knight’s remark made her chuckle. “To hear about Jon’s campaign in Astapor would be even more welcome. How long will it take?”

“A few weeks,” Ser Barristan replied. “I cannot say.”

Dany sighed and brushed her fears away.

“How are your little knights, ser?” she asked in an attempt to change the topic.

The old knight’s face lightened up.

“Well, four or five of them certainly have the making of a knight or perhaps a dozen of them. I hoped for more and I fear the day will come when we will have need of every knight.”

Dany smiled, imagining the grand tourneys Viserys had described to her when they were little children. Her brother Rhaegar had won such a tourney and had crowned Jon’s mother Queen of Love and Beauty. It must have been a grand thing to behold.

The thought made her happy, but also sad. Had her brother not perished at the Trident she might have seen many such tourneys. Mayhaps some great lord or a knight would have also crowned her. She would have liked that.

It made her also wonder if Jon or his brother Aegon would have competed for her hand. Or perhaps Viserys too? Her brother had always told her that it was custom for their family to wed and bed each other, though she it was hard for her to imagine Viserys on a horse.

“What are you thinking about, your Grace?” the old knight asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“Nothing in particular,” she replied and placed a kiss on Ser Barristan’s cheek. Sometimes, she pretended he was her grandfather. “I was just dreaming.”

Not long after, Missandei appeared at the door. She wore a blue dress with a silver tread that fitted the slippers Dany gifted her.  _She wears them day and night_ , Jhiqui and Irri had jested.

“Missandei?” Dany asked and graced her with a smile. “What is it?”

“The Shavepate wishes to speak with you,” the little scribe explained and dipped her head.

Dany sighed.

“Send him to me.”

As always, the Shavepate was accompanied by two of his Brazen Beasts.

“Your Radiance, I came to present my report to you,” the Shavepate explained. Six and twenty days ago, Hizdahr no Loraq, with the Green Grace’s prodding, had proposed a match between them. Dany had refused him of course, but the Green Grace had suggested a bargain to prove Hizdahr’s worth to her: If Hizdahr was be able to put an end to the killings committed by the Sons of the Harpy Dany would agree to wed him. Dany had agreed to the bargain, but had not promised to agree to the marriage. She had only promised to think about a possible betrothal.

She had also followed the Shavepate’s suggestion to have the Brazen Beasts follow her betrothed and take note of all his actions. “Last evening, Hizdahr has visited the pyramid of Zhak last and he did not depart until late into the night.”

This new piece of information roused Dany’s curiosity.

“How many pyramids has he visited?”

“Eleven,” the Shavepate replied curtly.

“And how long since the last murder?”

“Six and twenty days,” the Shavepate grumbled. “So far the noble Hizdahr has made good on his promise.”

“How?” Dany wanted to know. “Why have the Sons of the Harpy put down their swords?

Deep down she knew the answer, but that would make situation only more difficult. Without Hizdahr’s gold she would have never been able to afford her Brazen Beasts.

Yet the Shavepate remained blunt as ever.

“The answer is simply, your Radiance. Hizdahr is most likely one of the Sons of the Harpy, if not the Harpy himself.”

Dany frowned at that. The Shavepate was convinced that the Sons of the Harpy had a leader, but Dany didn’t share this belief. The Brazen Beasts’ had captured a dozen of these Sons of the Harpy and they had readily yielded names. All too many names for Dany’s taste.

But the Shavepate was not wrong to point out this possibility. Hizdahr had been flying around her like a bee around a pot of honey. She could not trust him. In that regard she also agreed with Jon, who had warned her vehemently against trusting Hizdahr before his departure to Astapor.

It made her wish that she had never sent him away. His absence had made it clear to her how much she had relied on his council and companionship.

“What you say is true,” Dany replied. “Noble Hizdahr is a persuasive man with many friends, but that doesn’t make him the Harpy.”

The Shavepate sucked in a deep breath. The frustration was palpable on his face.

“He may not be the Harpy, but he may know him or her. Let me question them further…,” the Shavepate began, but Dany cut him off.

“I know very well what your questioning would entail,” she said and made her displeasure known. “And I don’t deny that it brought me many names… all too many if you ask me. That said, you may continue to watch the noble Hizdahr, but do no harm him. Do you understand?”

“I am no fool,” the Shavepate grumbled and unfurled a parchment he had kept in the vest of his cloak. “But have a look at this, your Radiance. This is a list of all the Meereense ships that have recently joined the blockade. All the ruling families are present, even Reznak and Loraq.”

The list was of no use to her, just as the numerous names he had given her.

“Every man on that list has kin within the city. I cannot imprison them all.”

“You have taken hostages,” the Shavepate reminded her of the hard truth. Jon had done the same and yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  _I shall not be my father_ , she told herself.  _I will not butcher innocent children.”_

“You know my view on this matter,” was all she replied. Yet even later as the first rays of sunlight appeared on the distant horizon was she reading over the parchment, repeating the names to herself. She had wanted to burn the parchment, but she hadn’t been able to do it.

Barristan had even assured her that her brother Rhaegar would have been proud of her. Thinking of her brother made her sad as it also caused her to think of Jon and Ser Jorah. One she had sent into exile and the other she had sent to Astapor to kill the butcher king.

 _Do not fret_ , he had told her with full confidence.  _I shall bring you the butcher king’s head._

 _Come back instead,_ she thought as she wrapped herself in the white pelt of the harakker Drogo had killed for her so long ago. The pelt had always given her comfort, but it was not enough to drive away her loneliness. Daario had also offered himself to her after he had returned from his campaign in Lhazar. He had also brought a good hundred sellswords that had once served the Long Lances. She had thanked him and had then rebuked his advances.

Daario was charming, but he was no dragon.

“Is the mistress sad?” Missandei asked softly, rising from her sleeping place beside her. The little scribe’s hair was a tangle of wild curls, her golden eyes wide with worry.

In the last weeks, Irri had shared her bed, but it had been no use to calm her mind. Thus, she had taken the little scribe back as her bed companion.

The little girl’s presence gave her no sweet release, but the companionship she was craving for.

“I am well,” she assured the little scribe and rose from bed. “I am not tired. Would you call for Irri and Jhiqui to help me dress and bath? I shall break my fast in company of the Green Grace. I need to look proper.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

At dawn, the Green Grace arrived in attendance of a dozen of girls, all of them garbed in snow-white robes.

Missandei entertained the girls while she and the Green Grace sat down to break their fast.

It was more than Dany usually consumed, a meal of honeyed chicken, lamp, pig and accompanied by crushed mint and small green figs dipped in honey. It was Dany’s favorite dish and two of her favorite hostages served the food and filled her cup with wine.

The doe-eyed girl filling her cup was called Quezza and the skinny boy with a tangle of dark curls was called Grazdahr. They were brother and sister and cousins of the Green Grace.

“They are as sweet as honey,” Dany told the Green Grace. “Quezza has a  lovely voice and Grazdahr is very interested in learning more about Westerosi chivalry. I will ask Ser Barristan to teach him."

“That pleases me,” the Green Grace replied softly as ever. She was a very old woman with snow-white hair and thin skin. Yet her age hadn’t dimmed her eyes, sad and full of hidden wisdom or at least that was Dany’s impression. Unlike Dany, the Shavepate held only scorn for her.  _The old hag is playing her games with you_ , he liked to say. “But you do look rather weary if you do not mind me saying so, your Radiance.”

Dany feigned a smile. She didn’t like that the Green Grace had noted her lack of sleep.

“I commanded my men to attack the enemy ships, but it was no use.”

The Green Grace sipped from her cup in silence and pondered over her words before giving her answer.

“I heard about it, but I have also heard that the Sons of the Harpy have stopped their attacks,” she remarked quietly, her words cutting deep.

It was true. There was no way to deny the truth.

“Aye, they have stopped their attacks,” Dany admitted. “I suppose I owe that to noble Hizdahr.”

A triumphant smile played on the Green Grace’s lips.

“And that is why I urge you to wed him as quickly as possible…to bring peace to your freedmen and the people of this city.”

The Green Grace had spoken softly as ever, but the way she had separated the freedmen from the people of this city woke her displeasure.

 _I am still an outsider to them_ , she knew.  _They will never accept me. Not without a marriage._

“And you think marrying Hizdahr would help?”

“It would bring you the friendship and the love of the people of Meereen,” the Green Grace assured her. “I am speaking out of concern for you, your Radiance. You have need of a king to sit beside you and to help you bear your many burdens.”

It was true, but it was not Meereen she wanted to rule, but her home across the Narrow Sea. And it was not Hizdahr she wanted to give a crown. She wanted the crown for herself and for her nephew’s sake, for her family’s sake.

She had imagined it like this: she would rule and Jon would be her heir. She would pardon him and give him a good wife and a castle to rule. He would also sit at her council. She could not wed him, but she wouldn’t be alone. With Hizdahr she would have a man to share her bed, as he had already fathered children on his current wives, but he was a stranger to her and not a man she could trust, let alone a man she desired in her bed. He was not bad looking, but nothing stirred inside her whenever she laid eyes on him.

It had been different with Jon, perhaps because he was of her blood, but taking him to her bed would only ease her loneliness, but not solve the greatest impediment for the continuation of her line: her bareness.

Yet she could not outrightly refuse the Green Grace’s suggestion and thus she decided to remain polite.

“I shall think about your words, but it is too early for a promise,” she offered instead. “You must understand.”

“I understand, your Radiance,” the Green Grace promised, but Dany couldn’t help but to notice the displeasure in her voice. “And I trust Hizdahr to prove himself worthy.”

 _Which is no surprise_ , Dany thought with growing displeasure.  _Mayhaps the Shavepate has been right all along. You and Hizdahr are playing your games with me, aren’t you?_

Dany sighed and drowned her cup. Then, she excused herself and returned to bed. The Green Grace’s presence had brought her no peace, but it made her realize something important.

Dany was in dire need of rest. A tired Queen couldn’t rule.

After she had slipped beneath the bedding she had asked Missandei to tell her a story.

This time, she managed to fall asleep easily.

The wine must have helped too, because it was close to dawn when she was roused from her sleep.

“Your Grace!” Missandei’s bright voice roused her from her sleep.

Dany rubbed her eyes and gave her little scribe a questioning look.

“What is it?” she asked and brushed her hand through Missandei’s tangle of hair.

“the Shavepate and Reznak ask for your attendance…a rider has arrived. From Astapor.”

Dany’s heart fluttered when she heard this. “Did my nephew sent a rider?”

“It seems so,” Missandei confirmed. “The Shavepate refused to tell me more, your Radiance.”

Dany didn’t hesitate to hop out of her bed and pulled on the gown she had worn last night. She had no time for beautification and left without combing her hair.

As she entered the large audience chamber she found the Shavepate, Reznak, Ser Barristan and the Green Grace in attendance.

They look grim, which promised bad tidings. Her heart sank, but she couldn’t allow herself to show fear.

_I am the blood of the dragon._

“Missandei informed me that a rider from Astapor has arrived?” she asked without further hesitation as she swept her gaze over the assembled group of people. “Where is he?”

“Dead,” the Green Grace answered softly. “He came out of the morning mist, your Radiance. A lone rider on a pale horse, already dying. His mare was staggering as she approached the city gates, her sides pink with blood, her eyes rolling in terror. Her rider called out ‘Astapor has fallen!’. Under his tunic he was a skeleton, all bones and fevered flesh. The Bloody Flux, my Blue Graces told me.”

The Blue Graces were healers. They would know what illness killed him.

Yet it was not the man’s death that had horrified her.

“Jon sent him?” she asked, realizing her mistake when she noticed their surprised faces. She rarely called Jon by his given name in their presence. “I mean…Are you sure my nephew sent the rider?”

“He was one of the freedmen,” Ser Barristan replied. “I knew him. A boy from Astapor. I am sure he was sent by your nephew.”

“Why would your nephew sent a sick man to us?” the Green Grace asked. “It must be a sign of death and ruin…A sign of the gods. The Bloody Flux could bring ruin to us all.”

Dany shuddered, but not only because she had heard grizzly tales about this sickness, but because she had sent her nephew to a city struck by the plague.

And yet she doubted that Jon have intentionally sent a sick man to Meereen. The man must have been healthy at his departure and must have fallen ill on the road.

No, there was only one possible explanation for this. Jon had sent him here to warn them. If Astapor had fallen it must have been besieged by enemies, the sellswords Xaro had promised her.

And if Astapor had fallen Yunkai would be next.

Dany shuddered, her mind a storm of confusion. She was torn between her longing for peace and her wish to unleash her rage on Xaro and his allies.

And then, she recalled the promise she had given Jon not long ago.

She had promised to defend him against those who would harm him. She had given the same promise to her freedmen and her Dothraki.

It pained her to admit this to herself, but the time for peace was over. It was time to fight.

“If Astapor has fallen it is only a matter of time until Yunkai falls as well,” she told her advisors, her gaze seeking Ser Barristan’s gaze. “My nephew must have sent this rider to warn us and I shall not abandon him. We shall ride for Yunkai and if necessary to Astapor.”

“Your grace,” Ser Barristan said and stepped closer. “The Bloody Flux is a dangerous foe. I must insist that you remain…,” he began, but she cut him off.

“The blood of the dragon fears neither sickness nor death,” she replied determinedly and braced herself for the coming battle. “I shall saddle my silver and accompany you to Astapor. We shall take half of the remaining Unsullied and Daario shall join his Second Sons to our cause. The Shavepate will hold Meereen in my absence and has all freedom to subdue my shadow enemies. My patience is at an end. If they want war they shall have it. Fire and Blood, as my forebearers would say.”

Ser Barristan had fallen silent. Reznak, her Perfumed Seneschal stared at her anxiously and the Green Grace looked stunned.

“Your Radiance…,” she began. “The gods will not look kindly upon you if you stray away from your path of peace.”

“The path of peace brought me nothing but headaches,” Dany countered, sick and tired of the woman’s false council. She had thought she was a friend, but by now it had become clear to her that she was serving the enemy. “I shall give them what they deserve for harming my blood and children. Fire and Blood. Your gods may damn me, but Old Valyria had its own gods and mayhaps it is time I start praying to the gods of my forebearers.”

Then, she shifted her attention back to the rest of her council.

“Are my orders clear?”

“Of course, your Grace,” Ser Barristan replied and lowered his head in understanding.

Reznak spoken no word nor did the Green Grace.

The Shavepate was the only one who smiled and bowed his head lower than usual.

“I shall to my best, your Radiance.”

 _So will I_ , Dany promised to herself and brushed her fears away.  _So will I._

…


	14. The Young Wolf

**Robb**

Shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight Robb sat up and tried his best not to rouse his wife from her sweet slumber.

Wife. It was such a strange feeling to have a wife. He had always known that he would have to wed, but he had always believed that his Lord Father would be the one to find him an appropriate bride, but not that he would be forced to wed a girl for something simple as a bridge

 _A beautiful bridge_ , Roslin had jested after she had met him for the first time, not long after he had bent the knee to the Lannisters.

In truth, he had wanted to do the opposite. He had wanted to spit into Joffrey’s face, but instead he had bent the knee to save his sisters’ and his Lord Father’s life. He had even gone as far as to hand over the Kingslayer.

This decision had angered his lords greatly. Especially, old Rickard Karstark had been angered by his decision and had had tried to kill the Kingslayer before Robb could hand him over to Lord Tyrion Lannister, who had not long after arrived in Riverrun to collect his brothers and to settle the peace treaty on his father’s behalf.

Generously, Robb had offered the stubborn old man to take the black, but he had refused and thus Robb had been forced to take his head. As a result, the Karstark troops had nearly abandoned him, but after Robb had revealed his “true intentions” they had remained, though at the time their new lord and heir Halys Karstark had still been a prisoner of the Lannisters. By now, Roose Bolton had managed to take Harrenhall and had also managed to free Lord Halys, but Robb had no doubt that the young man might hold a grudge against him for executing his Lord Father.

The whole incident had soured his mood only more, until he had met Roslin in person.

In truth, he had expected a weasel-faced girl, but Lady Roslin had turned out to be a pleasant surprise as she had inherited little from the Frey part of the family.

On contrary, Lady Roslin was graced with a pretty face and gentle doe-eyes.

Even the small gap in her front teeth was pretty in its own way.

And while Robb hadn’t been struck by thunder when he had first laid eyes on her, it could have been far worse. Walder Frey could have offered him someone like Fat Walda and then Robb would have been forced to ask him politely for another wife, something the old man would have surely seen as an insult. Even during their last meeting old Walder had reminded him of the match his Lady Mother had arranged for his sister Arya and Lord Walder’s grandson Elmar Frey.

His sister Arya, who had been through hell and back while travelling in company of the Night’s Watch recruiter Yoren, had refused to speak to him ever since she had found out about the match.

His Lady Mother had assured him that Arya would eventually see reason, but Robb knew his stubborn sister better than that. Arya would rather run away than to wed a boy that wasn’t to her taste and thus Robb had intended to offer Rickon in exchange for his sister Arya, but then the gods had decided differently.

Barely a week ago, word had reached them of the destruction of Winterfell by the hands of the Ironborn. Robb had read the letter a good hundreds of times, before the reality had hit him like a brick wall.

Theon had betrayed him. The boy he had called his brother had turned his cloak and had helped murdering his two brothers, two innocent boys he had grown up with.

Even now, Robb had a hard time to wrap his head around Theon’s actions.

All he had left was to take revenge on Theon Greyjoy and the Ironborn, but for that he first had to re-take the North.

“Robb,” Roslin’s spoft-spoken voice snapped him back to the present. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

It was true. It was very early, but Robb had a hard time sleeping with so many responsibilities weighing down on him.

Smiling, he shifted his attention to Roslin.

“Aye, I am awake.”

Looking at her child-like body made him realize how young she was, though that hadn’t hindered his enthusiasms in consummating their marriage.

Robb had never been one to indulge in women. He had lost his maidenhead to a whore named Ross, but afterwards he had used his hand, staying away from fathering bastards. Theon Greyjoy had always made fun of him for that, but the real reason for his hesitance had been his brother Jon.

Jon had always stayed away from whores in fear of fathering bastards. Once his brother had even broken Theon Greyjoy’s nose after he had teased him about the matter.

“You are so silent,” Roslin’s sweet voice broke the silence as she sat up and pulled the pelts around her naked shoulders. They had continued to consummate their union even after Robb had managed “to put a pup in the girl’s belly!” as old Walder Frey had told him before his bedding.

This amused him, because his Lady Mother had explained to him before the wedding that a fragile lady like Roslin “might not care for it all too much”, but the contrary had been the case. Roslin was just as, if not even more enthusiastic, than Robb himself. “Bad dreams? Are you nervous?”

Robb wanted to deny his fears, but he was indeed fretting about the meeting with Stannis Baratheon, no King Stannis Baratheon, the First of his Name.

Robb had never met the man. All he knew about him was what his father had told him, namely that he was a grim, but loyal subject of his brother King Robert.

Robb didn’t doubt his father’s words, but what he had heard about King Stannis made him worry. Some say that his Red Witch from Asshai had worked magic to take Renly’s life.

Robb was of course skeptical of such tales. Magic was not something he believed in and Renly could have very well fallen to the blade of an assassin, but that wouldn’t change the fact that Stannis had a motive to kill his brother as Renly’s sudden death had brought him the loyalty of the Stormlands and had helped to destroy Renly’s allegiance with the Tyrells.

Not that Stannis’s actions were not to a certain extend understandable. Renly had claimed a crown that was not his to claim. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms Stannis was the rightful King, considering that Joff and his siblings were revealed to be bastards of incest born from the ungodly union of Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. Renly had committed treason and yet, Robb couldn’t imagine killing one of his brothers, not even Jon, who disgraced himself by deserting the Night’s Watch.

 _Now he is the only brother I have left_ , Robb knew, though he was sure his mother wouldn’t share his sentiment. _I must find him._

“Robb,” Roslin’s voice rang in his ears and her small fingers pulled on his shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you,” Robb replied and forced a smile over his lips, leaning closer to touch he cheek and to brush her hair out of her face. It was like a waterfall of silk and soft to touch.

Having her small, pert breast hovering before him made his cock harden, but there was no time for that.

He had to do something about his mother. He couldn’t keep her here, holding his hand while he was meeting King Stannis.

No, he had other plans for her, to give her a task to occupy her grief-addled mind. He had already settled everything, but he still had to speak with her.

“I need to get up,” he told her and touched her cheek. “I need to speak to my mother…alone. Mayhaps you could break your fast with your ladies.”

Roslin gave him an understanding smile.

“About time you are speaking to her,” she added and crawled out of bed to pull her discarded nightdress over her shoulders. “You two have been avoiding each other for weeks.”

 _It was my fault_ , he knew and rose to his feet, fresh guilt clenching around his heart when he thought of his sweet sister, who had remained a hostage after Robb had bent the knee. _Mayhaps I shouldn’t have fought._

Not long, after that shameful day his poor sister had been forced to wed Joffrey, a bastard of incest. He had even been invited, but Robb would have never set foot into King’s Landing even if his life had depended on it. His Lady Mother had offered to travel to the capital, but Robb had forced her to stay. Joff would have used her as a hostage against him, Robb was sure.

And while Robb had indeed bent the knee, he had always been watching the developments of the on-going war.

Officially, Robb had disbanded the majority of his army and had commanded them to march all the way to the Neck while Robb himself had remained in Riverrun, pretending to enjoy his honeymoon with his new wife.

And while he had enjoyed his honeymoon he had also planned his next strike, an invasion into the Westerlands to repay Lord Tywin Lannister for his bloody butchery in the Riverlands.

The few lords and men he had kept with him had been enthusiastic enough and his Uncle Edmure had fully supported him in his endeavor, but his Lady Mother had been sick with fear that Lord Tywin might find out about their planned betrayal.

Yet all the waiting had been worth it in the end. Barely a moon had passed, before word of King Renly’s death had reached Riverrun.

Renly had supposedly been slain by the hands of an assassin near Bitterbridge and King Stannis had not hesitated to march straight for the capital.

Robb hadn’t remained idle and had quickly put his plan into motion and had invaded the Westerlands a few weeks later by some mountain path that had allowed him to circumvent the Golden Tooth.

What had fallowed had been a brutal campaign of burning and pillaging towns, to instill fear into Lord Tywin’s subjects and more importantly, to keep the Lords of the Westerlands from joining the rest of their host with Lord Tywin Lannister’s that had taken position in the capital to defend it against King Stannis’ assault.

Not long after, Robb had defeated Ser Stafford Lannister’s host near Oxcross and had dealt them a harrowing defeat.

Barely week later, word had reached them about Stannis Baratheon’s bloody victory over the lions.

Lord Tywin Lannister and his army had been supposedly butchered beneath the walls of King’s Landing after wildfire had devoured Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.

More and more rumors had reached them in the weeks after the sack of King’s Landing, some more terrible than others. Cersei and Joff had been killed, their heads mounted atop the ramparts of King’s Landing, so much had been confirmed by first-hand witnesses, but what had happened to Sansa was still clouded in mystery.

Thinking of his sister made him sad, but what other choice had been left to him?

His lords had been angered by his cowardice and by helping King Stannis to the crown he had given them the revenge they had desired for their losses.

And while Robb had been victorious, he felt no joy about his victory as his Lady Mother had avoided him ever since as if looking at him pained her.

The reason was Sansa and his brothers, so much he knew, which was why he had hoped King Stannis would give him assurance regarding her whereabouts, but so far Robb hadn’t received a single word about his sister, only a raven that had informed him that the King was riding for Riverrun and expected the Lord of Winterfell to bend his knee to the rightful King.

The wording alone had been enough to wake Robb’s displeasure, but he also knew that he couldn’t allow his feelings to blind him to reason.

Establishing a good relationship with the new King was of utmost importance, especially if he had Sansa in his custody.

“You are frowning again,” Roslin’s sweet voice called him back to the present. “Forgive me, if my words made you sad.”

“They didn’t,” he assured her quickly. Then, he went to pick up his clothing and to retrieve breeches from a nearby strongbox. Roslin’s brother was a squire and would usually lay out his clothing for him every morning, but Robb had given him leave for today as he had wanted Roslin to share his bed and had wanted to spare his good brother the embarrassment of seeing his sister in such a disheveled state.

Olyvar’s other brothers might have cheered Robb on, but the young man was rather shy when it came to the ladies.

Once, he had finished dressing he pulled on his boots, washed his face and combed his long hair.

“You should at least shave,” Roslin chided him gently as she took in his beard. “You are soon going to meet a King.”

“King Stannis won’t have my allegiance until he has told me about my sister’s fate,” Robb replied and placed a kiss on her cheek. “It is that simple.”

“As you say,” Roslin replied, her voice laced with worry.

“Don’t be afraid,” Robb assured her and patted her cheek as he took in her new dress. “All will be well.”

Garbed in grey wool and a white pelt thrown around her shoulders she looked almost as if she had been born in the north.

“I hope so,” she replied fearfully, her doe-eyes seeking his gaze. “May the seven protect us from the Red Witch. I heard she can kill a man just by looking at him.”

“Nonsense,” Robb countered as he clutched her face between his hands. “Even this Red Witch is just a woman of flesh and blood. I promise, no harm shall come to you. And now, I must speak with my mother.”

His mother looked even paler than usual, but Robb had no time to shed tears. He had work to do and Ironborn to kill.

“You look better, mother,” he lied and filled her cup to the brim. The servants had also served them a hearty meal: roasted bacon, fresh fruits from the gardens and cooked eggs. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” came the curt answer, though she didn’t refuse the cup of wine. “I have already eaten.”

Then, she swept her gaze over the empty table.

“Where is Lady Roslin?”

“Breaking her fast in company of her ladies,” Robb replied just as curtly. “Where is Arya?”

His mother sighed deeply and took a sip from the cup, before meeting his gaze.

“Probably running about with the Mormont girl,” his mother explained. “Wait and see, soon she will dress in chainmail and wave around an axe. She already has this horrid sword.”

“Needle,” Robb corrected her and couldn’t help but to smile. At first, he had been shocked, but after Arya had told him that Jon had gifted her this sword, he hadn’t been surprised. His brother was the kind of person who would do something like that, though his mother had been less pleased. “The sword is called Needle and we should allow her this small piece of freedom. She is ten and one and once she is flowered she will be a grand price…,” he trailed off.

His mother gave him a confused look.

“Arya is already betrothed.”

“Aye, but due to Rickon’s and Bran’s deaths she has become much more valuable than that. I can’t wed her to a Frey boy with no inheritance to speak of. Besides, I have different plans for her if you allow me to explain.”

His mother seemed displeased, but the nod of her head told him that she was willing to listen.

“Given that Aunt Lysa is being stubborn and that she is now wed to this Petyr Baelish, a man that once served the Lannisters, I think it would be in the North’s best interest to pursue and allegiance with Lord Yohn Royce. I am thinking of a match between Uncle Edmure and his daughter Lady Ysilla Royce and in exchange I would support him in removing Aunt Lysa and her husband from power. I am also thinking of having Arya betrothed to my cousin’s heir, a certain Harrold Hardyng. At least, Lord Royce thinks that would be the best course of action.”

“Harrold Hardyng?” his mother asked in utter confusion. “What about Robin?”

“Robin is a sickly boy who still sucks from his mother’s tits,” Robb countered and tried his best to hide his obvious disgust. “Arya deserves better than that.”

“He is my sister’s son,” his mother countered with obvious displeasure. “But I understand what you are trying to say. Well, do as you please. You have long stopped listening to my council.”

“Mother,” Robb said, softening his voice a little. “I know that Aunt Lysa is our blood, but she is a hinderance. I shall see that she and her boy are well-treated, but I cannot do more for her than that. Besides, you said yourself that the boy is of fragile health. The winter’s are harsh in the Vale and the maesters think this will be the longest winter in a thousand years…it is not out of the question that the boy will perish before winter is over.”

“Very well,” his mother agreed at last and searched his gaze. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to travel to Runestone and to have Edmure wed as soon as possible. Arya will go with you, to keep her safe. Lord Royce will make sure of that. She is after all my heir until my child is born,” he explained and forced a smile over his lips. “Do you understand, mother?”

His mother frowned, but nodded her head in agreement.

“I understand.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wed Joff shortly after Robb bent the knee, so Robb kinda hoped that the Lannisters wouldn't kill Joff's wife. It was a gamble, which is why Cat is pissed with Robb since it seems that Sansa is dead.
> 
> And yes, I am sure a lot of people hate Robb now for the betrothal stuff, but this is not a modern world. Arya would have always expected to marry. Ned would have also made a match for her, whether she liked it or not. Robb just thinks that a Frey is not good enough for her.


	15. Yunkai

**Daenerys**

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when her handmaids roused her from her slumber. Wearily, Dany rubbed her eyes and climbed out of her sleeping roll, discarding her robes. Naked as her nameday, she allowed Irri to rub her clean, before Jhiqui helped her dress in black breeches, boots, a simple tunic made of wool and a leather vest. Once she had dressed, she asked Missendei braid her hair and fasten her bells. In the past it this had been Irri’s task, but the little scribe enjoyed doing it and Dany enjoyed listening to her stories while she braided her hair.

“Ser Barristan has already made preparations to pack up the camp,” Irri informed her as she sat down to break her fast. They had a bowl of lintel porridge and a cup of honeyed milk. “He says that we can leave at sunset and that we will most likely arrive in Yunkai by midday.”

“Thank you. Now sit down and eat. You will need your strength,” Dany replied thoughtfully and shuffled the porridge into her mouth. The taste was not to her liking, but she had had worse food while she had resided with the Dothraki. Sometimes, she still dreamed of the iron taste of the horse heart she had been forced to devour. The Dosh Khaleen had foretold that her son would be the stallion that mounts the world, but that had been another lie. Yet Rhaego had perished and with him all hope to continue her family’s legacy. Now she had Jon to depend on, but then she had sent him to Astapor.

Irri smiled and sat down, dropping a spoon of whipped cream on her porridge, before starting to eat. Jhiqui did the same, but she added dried dates.

Dany didn’t eat. Thinking of her nephew and the coming conflict had stolen her appetite. Instead she sipped on her cup of honeyed milk and listened to her handmaids’ chatter.

Soon after, Ser Barristan joined them to inform them that everything was ready for their departure.

They rode all evening, Dany on her Silver and flanked by her two handmaids. Missandei rode in front of her, seated on a soft-hearted palfrey horse. Looking at her she realized how young she was. She was still a child and Dany was taking her to war, but then she might have need of her abilities as a translator.

They made a small break near a winding river to rest their horses, but Dany urged them to move on towards Yunkai.

The sun loomed over the city walls when they arrived at Yunkai, its crumbling walls, towers and stepped pyramids glowing like burnished copper.

The harpy that had once been mounted atop the city gates had long been removed by her bear’s hands, but the sight gave her no comfort.

“Your Radiance,” Ben Plumm greeted them along the way, seated atop a black stead and accompanied by a good hundred of his Second Sons. He smiled when he saw the Unsullied she had brought with her and Daario, who had brought his brave  _Stormcrows_ , despite her refusal to share his bed. She had expected him to be cross, but only a day ago before their departure she had heard that he had been sighted in Meereen’s finest pillow houses. “I welcome you in Yunkai and I have important news to share with you. I assumed you heard about the fall of Astapor?”

Dany nodded her head in confirmation.

“Aye, we heard about the fall of Astapor. That is why I came. Has the enemy been sighted?”

“Aye,” Ben Plumm confirmed and jerked his head at the city. “Jon can tell you everything about it, your Radiance.”

Dany’s heart nearly stopped, Ser Barristan smiled warmly and Daario laughed.

“The green boy has more lives than a cat.”

“Jon is alive?” she asked and exhaled deeply. “And he is here?”

“Aye,” Ben Plumm confirmed and frowned. “He arrived a day ago in company of your Unsullied and freedmen. He also brought six-thousand Astapori, those few who haven’t been killed by the plague.”

“And you allowed them entrance?” Ser Barristan asked in shock.

“Jon insisted upon it,” Ben Plumm replied with obvious displeasure. “He claimed these were the healthy ones or those who have recovered from the plague. He also threatened me and thus I agreed to put them in a separate part of the city in one of the abandoned pyramids. Some, those who are still a bit sickly, I sent to the Tempel of Graces. So far, they have made no problems, but then Yunkai is still well-supplied with food and water. A siege would pose no problem for us, though the city walls are certainly less fortified than in Meereen, but then you also brought your Unsullied. The enemy won’t have an easy play. That is for sure.”

Dany had listened in silence, trying take in all this new information.

“Do not be cross with Jon,” Dany said at last. “The freedmen are my people. They need protection and Yunkai shall keep them.”

“Of course,” Ben Plumm replied, his eyes darting to the sky, searching for something. Dany knew what he was hoping to find. Her other ‘children’, her dragons. “But…,” he was about to continue, but Dany cut him off.

“No buts,” she chided him. “Let’s move on. I want to hear what my nephew has to say.”

The freedmen of Yunkai cheered as they rode through the city, the steps of her Unsullied ringing in her ears and giving her the comfort she needed.

Throughout her march to Yunkai she had been plagued by doubts, but now she knew that she done the right thing.

Not much to her surprise, Ben Plumm had taken residence in one of the largest of the twelve stepped pyramids. Like in Meereen, they had belonged to the most powerful that had ruled over the city. Her bear hadn’t hesitated to put the male leaders of said families to the sword. Only the women and the children he had taken as hostages.

Only a handful of noble families had managed to escape the slaughter and were probably among those that had attacked Astapor.

She found Jon in a large hall of pink marble, standing at a round table made of dark wood, a painted map spread before him.

At his side were the two sub-commanders of the Second Sons, a stocky Pentoshi and a tall and strongly-built Astapori, his bright tattoos betraying his past as a pit fighter. Greyworm was also there, his dark gaze searching hers the moment she had entered the room.

If Greyworm was prone to smiles he would have smiled, Dany was sure and directed her gaze at Jon.

She couldn’t help but to frown when she looked at him. There was something different about him and it wasn’t just his appearance.

His cheeks were hallow and his face very pale, even more so than usual. Yet the worst were his eyes, wet and glistening with a deep sadness.

He looked exhausted and sad.

“Nephew,” she greeted him. “I am glad to find you hale. When your rider arrived in Meereen we feared the worst. What happened?”

Her nephew didn’t return her smile as he met her gaze.

Instead he sucked in a deep breath and brushed the sweat from his brow. His cheeks were flushed while his lips were as pale as snow.

“We managed to defeat the butcher king’s “Unsullied” and the siege of Astapor only lasted a few days, before the freedmen of the city cut off his head and opened the gates for us,” he explained and jerked his head at Greyworm. “We tried to restore order to the city, but then our outriders informed us about the approaching enemy…the Company of the Cat, the Windblown and two legions from Ghis. Fighting them would have ended in a butchery and thus we decided to abandon Astapor.”

Daario chuckled. “So you ran away to hide behind Ben Plumm’s skirt, green boy?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery.

Jon’s reaction came promptly, namely in form of an angry frown and fletched teeth. Even his massive wolf stirred to life, his ruby eyes seeking Daario’s.

“I abandoned the city,” her nephew confirmed bluntly as ever and shifted his attention back to Dany. “We took all the valuable food with us and soiled the wells of the city with those that had perished from the Blood Flux. We also left the masters’ wine cellars untouched,” he added, a ghost of a smile hushing over his dry lips as he looked over to Greyworm.

Greyworm gave a quiet nod, though it might have also been a smile.

Dany was confused. The soiling of the wells she could get behind…But how would the untouched wine be of help to them?

“We poisoned the wine with stool from those who perished from the plague,” Jon explained and his face turned even paler.

 _Is he perhaps sick_ , she realized at once and felt her heart drop. Dany and Viserys had rarely been sick. Her brother had always claimed it was due to their dragon blood, but then Viserys had filled her young heart with too many lies.

Dragon blood or not, her nephew looked sick.

“I understand,” she said at last and graced her nephew with another smile. “And I approve of your actions. Thank you for saving my freedmen.”

She expected some sort of acknowledgement. A smile or perhaps a nod, but her nephew froze as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water of her his head.

When he started to tremble, she knew something was amiss.

Still, she didn’t dare to address the issue in front of all these people. It would make Jon appear weak.

Thus, she dismissed everyone from her presence.

“Nephew,” she said once everyone had left. “Are you sick?”

He froze again and brushed the sweat from his brow.

“It is a sunburn,” he explained hesitatingly. “I can’t stand the heat…and I haven’t slept very well since my departure from Astapor.”

“But you look like a ghost,” she insisted, not buy his words. “Is there something on your mind?”

“No,” he replied stubbornly, but didn’t move despite her lingering presence. “I am just tired.”

Dany frowned and lifted her hand to touch his cheek.

I didn’t surprise her how hot his cheeks felt.

“You have a fever,” she said and he pulled away, fleeing from her presence.

“I shall rest,” he declared and dipped his head, indicating that he was about to leave her.

Dany was stunned by his behavior.

He his cheeks had felt like a brazier, but his words had felt as cold as frost, leaving her with one lingering question: What happened to Jon?

…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's cold behaviour has nothing to do with him disliking Dany. The contrary, he thinks she is going to hate him if she finds out.


	16. The Onion Knight

**The Onion Knight**

Castle Riverrun was unlike any castle he had ever seen. It was bordered on the north by the Tumblestone, on the south by the Red Fork and on the west side it was protected by a massive man-made ditch. If one filled the moat with water one could easily turn it into an impregnatable island.

And yet Ser Davos doubted it would be large enough to host all large amount of men behind its glimmering red sandstone walls. They reminded him a bit of the Red Keep, but the smell was much better. In King’s Landing everything smelled of fish and shit, but here in Riverrun the smell of flowers was lingering everywhere he turned.

Davos didn’t dare to admit it openly, but the Riverlands were the most beautiful place he had ever seen. It was full of rolling hills and green meadows. It made King’s Landing look like a heap of shit.

And yet he had also seen the destruction that had been caused by the short struggle between the Lannisters and the Starks. They had seen pillaged villages, scorched fields and had encountered mistrustful smallfolk.

There had been no cheers for the them, though Davos doubted Stannis would have cared.

Davos had a different view. He knew the common people better than the King’s other advisers and knew how hard it would be to get them on their side.

Most of the smallfolk were followers of the Faith. Lady Melisandre’s presence in the King’s council wouldn’t bring them anything but mistrust and yet Ser Davos also understood why the King kept her close. She had proven herself to him and without her Stannis would have never been able to claim the throne.

The same could be said about Robb Stark, who had broken his vow to the Lannisters, but when it came to Eddard Stark’s oldest son, his King remained skeptical.

His King held no love for Eddard Stark and even less for his son, whom he viewed as a green boy.

When Davos had tried to convince him otherwise, his King had scoffed.

_Do you think the boy did it out of selflessness_ , he had destroyed all of Davos’ delusions.  _He will have demands._

And that may very well be true, but nobody could deny that Eddard Stark’s son lacked manners.

An escort of a good hundred men, all garbed in matching cloaks of red and blue, awaited them on the road, led by a young man.

At first, he had mistaken the young man for Lord Edmure, for the Tully’s were known for their red hair and blue eyes, but when he had seen the massive wolf prowling next to the young man’s horse he knew that this was Robb Stark himself.

Ser Davos had met Eddard Stark only once and the boy showed little resemblance to him. Unlike, Lord Stark he was a of a stocky built, was graced with a full face and lacked the Starkish coloring.

And yet his grey cloak betrayed his Stark inheritance.

“I am Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” the young man greeted them in a firm and commanding tone and swept his gaze over their party of about one-hundred men, most of them King’s men.

 “I expected King Stannis,” the young man remarked rather bluntly and searched Ser Davos’ face and then the sigil displayed on his vest. “Are you the Onion Knight?”

“I am indeed Ser Davos Seaworth,” Davos confirmed himself and dipped his head. “Hand of the King to King Stannis, though most call me the Onion Knight. The King sent me on his behalf.”

Realization washed over Robb Stark’s face.

“He informed me that he would come himself,” Robb Stark added after a moment of silence had passed between them. “What changed his mind?”

_Careful_ , Davos reminded himself.  _The wrong answer could cost us dearly._

“On the contrary, my Lord,” Ser Davos replied and forced a smile over his lips. “The King would have been very pleased to come to Riverrun, but his reign is still fresh and you might have heard about the riots at the capital, caused by the so-called Sparrows.”

“Aye,” Robb Stark confirmed. “But not only in the capital. I heard these so- called Sparrows are growing like weed. Even here in the Riverlands we have seen them travelling from town to town, trying to frighten the smallfolk with their tales about the approaching end of the world.”

Davos wasn’t surprised by this. A land ravaged by war was full of despairing people ready to follow these kinds of troublemakers. And yet he wished King Stannis would handle them with more understanding. Butchering them might stir the smallfolk to even more foolish acts.

It had been worse enough when they had demanded Lady Melisandre’s head for the destruction of the holy shrines in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Of course, the King had never given Lady Melisandre an order to destroy the shrine, but then he hadn’t prevented it either. That he had yet to install a new High Septon posed an even greater problem, for many of the Sparrows were spreading rumors that he intended to give the crystal crown to his “Red Whore” as Lady Melisandre was commonly called among the Sparrows.

Yet he couldn’t voice these thoughts in front of Robb Stark.

“True, my lord,” Ser Davos replied instead. “These Sparrows are nasty, but I am sure they will calm down.”

“I hope so,” Robb Stark replied and jerked his head at castle Riverrun looming. “Let us ride for Riverrun. Salt and bread awaits you and your companions, Ser Davos.”

_Salt and bread_ , Davos thought as he pulled on the reins of his courser, directing it where it belonged. It seemed Robb Stark was also mistrustful.

They rode for another hour, before they reached the gates of Riverrun, where they were greeted with salt and bread and a cup of wine.

Davos drank deeply to brush the taste of dust out of his mouth and to give Robb Stark the assurance he was seeking.

Eating salt and bread sealed the guest right. This also meant they had to give up their weapons, before they were allowed into Riverrun’s Great Hall.

That night, they ate and drank at the side of the Riverlords or those few that had come to attend. There were a handful of Northmen among them, but not as many as Davos had expected to see.

_He must have sent them North_ , Davos had realized soon after.  _To fight off the Ironborn. The King won’t like that._

Yet he had kept these thoughts to himself and any talk of politics was forgotten until the next day.

On the morning, they came together to negotiate.

It was the first time that Davos had been tasked with such important matter. Others would have hidden their intentions with false flattery, but Ser Davos was a simple man and preferred blunt words.

“My King’s demands are simple, Lord Stark. He wants you to bend your knee and help him defeat  _our_  enemies, namely the Lannisters and the Tyrells,” Ser Davos explained to Robb Stark and took a sip from his cup. It was summerwine, sweet and pleasant on the tongue. Like Marya’ and his sons’ kisses. Three of them had perished during the Battle of the Blackwater and the others…he hadn’t seen them in nearly a year.

_When this war is done I shall visit them and never leave them_ , he swore to himself. _Mayhaps Marya and I shall have another child. _A girl would be nice for a change.__

Robb Stark had waited until Ser Davos had finished drinking, before he gave his answer.

“The Lannisters are indeed _our_  enemy,” the young man confirmed, but his words lacked the smile to back them. “But the Tyrells are not. Why are they still fighting? Did Lord Renly leave Lady Margaery with child? Surely, King Stannis would allow them to bend the knee in exchange for hostages?”

Davos wished it was so easy, but the Queen’s insistence of seeing her family returned to their birthright made such an agreement impossible.

Not that he didn’t understand King Stannis’s reasoning. The Queen’s Men were his staunchest supporters. He couldn’t simply ignore them and he was too proud to forgo a promise he had given in earnest. Yet he couldn’t tell Robb Stark about these personal matters.

“No,” Ser Davos replied and put his cup back on the table. “Lady Margaery is not with child, but I doubt they will ever consider bending the knee. The Tyrells blame my King for Renly’s death. There are rumors that they are allying themselves with the Lannisters, which is why the King wishes to strike quickly.”

“Strike quickly?” Robb Stark asked in displeasure. “I assume that is what he wants my men for?”

“Aye,” Davos confirmed without hesitation. “He has need of your help.”

“But first have need of  _his_  help,” Robb Stark replied and searched Se Davos’ gaze. “I do not wish to accuse the King of any misconduct, but it surprised me that there was no mention of my sister Sansa in his letter. We know what happened to Queen Cersei and her bastard Joffrey, but we know nothing about my sister’s whereabouts.”

Ser Davos had known beforehand that this topic would come up and could only drop his head.

They had done their best to find Sansa Stark, but so far they had found no trace of her. Either the girl had been killed during the riots or she had been whisked away.

“The King did not mention her, because he has no knowledge about your sister’s whereabouts,” Ser Davos explained. “We have searched the entire city, but so far we have found no sign of her.”

“How is that even possible?” asked the Blackfish, who was seated next to Robb Stark. He had grey hair, blue eyes and a weather-worn face. “Was she not in the Red Keep? There must at least be a body.”

“We found no sign, Ser,” Ser Davos repeated sadly. “I wish it was otherwise.”

“Mayhaps something was done to her body,” the Blackfish countered, his blue eyes narrowed and simmering with distrust. “Mayhaps your King is trying to hide something.”

“Be careful what you say, Ser,” Ser Alester Florent interrupted. He was a tall and slender man, with silver hair and a spikey beard. As always, he was dressed in splendid clothing: a slashed velvet doubled and a jeweled cloak. Davos had wanted to leave him in King’s Landing, but the Queen had insisted that her Uncle would accompany him. “You are speaking about our King.”

_If the Queen had her way he would be Hand of the King_ , Davos knew.

“And you seem to forget that without my late brother  _King Robert_ would have had no claim to speak of,” the Blackfish replied bluntly as ever. Davos wouldn’t have expected anything different from a man like him, but Lord Alester Florent looked as if a cup of wine had been poured over his head. It made Davos almost smile, but he was mindful of his task.

“And the King would never deny this truth,” Ser Davos replied quickly, before Lord Alester was able to recover. “But he is still the rightful King.”

“Aye,” Robb Stark agreed and waved his hand at the Blackfish. “He is the rightful King and I shall recognize him as such, but for the time being I can’t offer King Stannis more than the Riverlords. I need my men to re-take the North from the Ironborn.”

“The King won’t…,” Lord Alester was about to speak again, but Ser Davos’ gaze silenced him at once. The Queen had wanted him there, but it was Ser Davos who was Hand of the King and not him.

“The King will not like that,” Davos finished for Lord Alester and graced Robb Stark with a weary smile. “But the times are difficult. The King will appreciate any amount of men you are able to offer against  _our_  common enemy.”

Robb Stark didn’t return his smile, but nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“If the Tyrells have truly allied themselves with the Lannisters then they are also my enemy,” Robb Stark added. It sounded almost like a promise. Almost. There was also doubt ringing in Robb Stark’s voice. “A terrifying enemy if I may say so. How many men does the King have?”

Davos was hesitant and exchanged a glance with Lord Alester Florent.

His face was deeply flushed, but Davos had no time for court games.

He didn’t sugarcoat the truth.

“The Stormlands and the Crownlands and some of the Reach lords have joined our cause.”

“What about Dorne?” Robb Stark asked after he had pondered Ser Davos’ words for a while. “Has the King made any attempts to make peace with them? They do not hold much love for the Tyrells.”

Davos was surprised by Robb Stark’s answer. It seemed he knew more about the south than he led on.

“The King has made no such attempts as the Dornish refused to hand over Myrcella Waters,” Davos explained.

“What does the girl matter?” the Blackfish asked with a frown and crossed his arms in front of him. “Even Dorne can’t hope to claim the throne with a bastard girl.”

“True,” Lord Alester agreed. “But who knows what that the Dornish are plotting. They have always been treacherous vipers.”

“Or mayhaps Prince Doran is still grieving for his sister’s death,” Robb Stark stated. “We all know what the rumors say about her death, namely that she and her babes were slain by the Mountain. At least that is what my Lord Father used to say. Promise them the head of the Mountain and they might reconsider your King’s demand.”

It was a bold statement, but true.

“We already tried that,” Lord Alester scoffed. “It was no use.”

“Which leaves us with your Aunt Lady Lysa Arryn,” Ser Davos added hesitatingly and took another sip form his cup. “Jon Arryn was a loyal supporter of King Robert, but the same cannot be said about his wife. She is now wed to a traitor…Petyr Baelish.”

“Petyr was always a clever fellow,” the Blackfish remarked mockingly. “And Lysa always wanted him in her bed. It does not surprise me that she agreed to wed him.”

“His entanglement with your niece if of no concern to us, Ser,” Lord Alester returned grimly. “But our King desires Petyr Baelish’ head.”

“So do we,” Robb Stark agreed surprisingly. “And I have already taken actions in this matter. Petyr Baelish will be removed from power. This I can promise you.”

Davos was stunned by this revelation.

“How so?” Davos asked. “The rumors say that your Aunt refused to pledge your men to your cause. Why would she suddenly be prepared to give up her Paramount?”

“Because there are certain Lords who hold as much love for Lord Baelish as your King. Sadly, I cannot tell you more until the matter is resolved. In the meantime, I ask your King to show patience.”

“Patience is not something a King can afford,” Lord Alester scoffed again, much to Ser Davos displeasure.

“What Lord Alester wants to say is that our King has need of loyal subjects.”

“I can be a  loyal subject,” Robb Stark replied almost coldly, his blue eyes piercing into his. “I have broken a vow to help your King. I have sacrificed good men as well, but for now I must fight my own battles. Can you accept this on behalf of your King, Ser Davos?”

Ser Davos knew that he had little choice to accept Robb Stark’s offer. It was less than the King had hoped for, but better than nothing.

The sad truth was, they needed Robb Stark to win this war.

“I understand and accept your offer, my Lord.”

…


	17. Distance

**Jon**

He was prowling through the dusty landscape, a fat moon mocking him and an inky cloak of glittering stars spreading over the sky. A soft wind whispered in his ears as he moved along the river cast in silver moonlight.

It gave a clear sight ahead, a familiar smell entering his nose. It was the smell of flesh and fear that had lured him here. It was the smell of food.

As he continued onwards, the whispering of the wind was joined by the sound of the rushing river and the sound of the rustling shrubbery.

Driven by purely by instinct, he rushed after the creature, his four paws allowing him to move quickly and agile. The animal, a white rabbit, had barely been able to lift his head, before his sharp teeth had buried itself deep into its neck.

The iron taste of blood filled his mouth, but helped to still his hunger. He felt a hint of pity for the rabbit, before he tore of its head with one quick bite. The flesh was delicious. Soft and hearty, but his prey had been too thin. He lusted for another meal to fill his empty belly and disappeared in the darkness…

Darkness. Sometimes, he also dreamed of a prison full of darkness, his brother’s scream filling his ears…

When Jon woke he still had the taste of iron on his tongue, but his head felt worse. It felt as if someone had bashed his it against a stone wall.

His throat felt not much better, dry and aching with every breath he took.

_I need water_ , he thought and tried to move to the side, his gaze searching the room for something or someone.

It was a single dimly-lit room with a single narrow window.

_It is night_ , he realized at once. _I must have slept all day._

“Lord Snow,” a shy and sweet voice aroused his attention and made him crane his neck. It was Missandei, the little scribe. She was garbed in bed robes and wore a pelt around her shoulders.

She smiled as she leaned closer, her golden eyes bright like two polished gold coins.

“The mistress will be pleased,” she said and leaned down to pick up a cup, presenting it to him. “You look thirsty, Lord Snow?”

Lord Snow was not a name he liked. It had been given to him by a man who had only ever held scorn for him, but then he could hardly blame the little scribe for her lack of knowledge.

It was true. He was indeed thirsty. There was no reason to spurn her offer.

“I am thirsty,” he confirmed and leaned down to take the cup from her hands. He drank greedily, emptying the cup in one go, yet it was not enough.

“Can I have more?” he asked and the girl gave him an understanding nod.

The girl smiled and rose to her feet, wandering over to the table where she had left a flagon of water.

While she was pouring water into the cup Jon, pulled himself into a sitting position. Once, he had accomplished this simple goal, he swung his legs over the bed and put them on the cool stone floor. He was glad that he was still garbed in his tunic or he would have been forced to wrap that bedding around him.

As he tried to stand, he realized his folly. His feet felt weak like pudding. He was barely able to balance himself against the wall before he stumbled to the ground like a child that had just taken his first steps.

His face hitting meeting ground had hurt, but the embarrassment cut far deeper.

To Missandei’s credit, she didn’t laugh at and waited patiently until he had pulled himself back to his feet.

“You need to rest, Lord Snow,” the girl explained kindly and offered him the cup. He couldn’t smile, but drank greedily. Once he had emptied the cup, he placed it on the floor and shifted his attention back to Missandei.

“How long have I slept?”

“Only two days, my Lord,” the girl replied obediently. “The Mistress wanted to take care of you, but the others thought you caught the Blood Flux and that is why she tasked me to take care of you. I did my best not to disappoint her.”

Jon was surprised by the girl’s words. It touched him that his Aunt cared about his well-being, but then his nostrils took in the smell of his tunic.

It was drenched in sweat. The smell was disgusting.

“I had a fever,” he knew and smiled at the girl. “It must have been a very bad sunburn.”

“Aye,” the girl confirmed. “And exhaustion. Your skin was dry and your stomach empty. I fed you with fruit and honey. At first, I also thought you might have a bout of the Blood Flux, but there was no watery stool. Still, you should rest,” the girl added and pulled the bedding back over his naked feet.

Jon realized his mistake when he started to blush and pulled the bedding all the way up to his chin.

Yet it was. He was still weak and his head was pounding painfully.

But a battle is coming. There was no time for rest.

He at least needed to wash himself and find out what was going on.

“I will head your advice,” he replied and graced the little scribe with another smile. “But I need to wash and have need of fresh clothing. I also need to speak with Daen…your mistress. Would you call for her? And…Have you seen my wolf?”

The girl nodded her head in understanding and walked towards the door.

“I shall bring you fresh water and fresh clothing. Once, you are done I shall call for my mistress and bring you something to eat. And your wolf…he scared off the guards after they tried to feed him and ran away. I hope for you that he comes back.”

“Thank you, I am sure he will,” Jon replied and was glad when the girl had left. Ghost’s disappearance didn’t worry him, for he had dreamed of him tonight, slipping inside his mind, thought that must have been another dream. That Ghost had left didn’t surprise him either. His loyal companion had never liked being scooped up in the city and yet Jon knew that he would always come back to him.

Exhaling deeply, he pulled himself back to his feet and stumbled towards the window, yet down below he only found the moon-cast walls and pyramids of Yunkai.

He was in one of the great pyramids, so much he knew but that thought gave him no comfort. Soon, the enemy would come for them and he was sure that it would be a bloody battle, despite the trap he had laid out for them in Astapor. If they were lucky it would reduce their strength, but that didn’t mean it would be easy to win. Sure, they could retreat back to Meereen, but what massage would that send to the enemy? It hated that he had to abandon Astapor. He couldn’t tolerate another act of cowardice. That he had been forced to give the doomed freedmen “mercy”…

Just thinking about it made him shudder, the dark memories of this day trying to wedge its way back into his mind. He brushed these thoughts away, before they could overwhelm him, though they haunted his dreams. It had been a relief that he had been able to slip into Ghost’s mind and mayhaps that was the reason he had finally been able to find proper sleep.

“Lord Snow,” someone called out to him and caused him to turn around. As promised, Missandei had returned with a bowl of water and fresh clothing. “Tell me when you are done. Then, I will call for the mistress.”

“Thank you again,” Jon replied and went to work. He stripped naked and washed himself from head to toe, rubbing the sweat and dirt from his body. Once he was finished, he sprinkled water over his head and washed his hair, before taking in the fresh clothing Missandei had brought him.

It was a fresh tunic, dark breeches and underclothing. He dressed slowly and felt ashamed of his weakness.

It had been his fault. He knew how easily affected he was by the heat and yet he hadn’t taken enough time to rest and to take care of himself. He had been too occupied with the task of getting the last survivors of Astapor to safety. And he had accomplished this task, but soon the enemy would be upon them. How many of them would survive was up to the gods…

“Nephew,” his Aunt greeted him as she entered, a smile curling on her lips. “I mean Jon. Missandei told me that you wish to speak with me?”

She looked so different from her usual appearance. Her shoulder-length silver hair was tumbling freely down her shoulders and she wore a red wool tunic fastened with a leather belt. She also wore breeches and boots.

Just looking at her made his heart clench with guilt. He had expected to feel guilty, but not like this…

Yet that was not the only reason. When he had given the people of Astapor mercy, he had also acted in Daenerys’ name. She hadn’t even been able to harm the hostages.

He would understand if she despised him for his actions.

He had long accepted his fate, but even so he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth.

_Not yet_ , he told himself.  _When the battle is done._

“Jon,” his Aunt’s voice called him back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”

Jon nodded his head and stumbled back to the bed.

“I heard you,” he said then and eyed the bowl of fruits greedily. His stomach was as empty as Theon Greyjoy’s head. “I hoped you could tell me what I missed.”

“Oh,” she said, realization washing over her beautiful face. Jon didn’t know why, but she sounded slightly disappointed. “I see, but I think it would be better for you to rest.”

Jon was stunned by her calmness and confused by her reaction. What had she hoped for?

_Could it be_ …, he wondered but banished these thoughts away before they could take hold of his mind.  _If she liked me in such a way she would have made it clear to me._

_She made you strip naked and bath with her_ , his hopeful heart reminded him and his heartbeat sped up.

Not that it mattered.

_She will despise after I have told her the truth._

Thus, he forgot about his hopes and hardened his heart.

“The enemy will come for us,” he reminded her and jerked his head at the bowl in her hands, asking her permission. “Can I?”

“Of course,” she offered and lifted the bowl. Jon picked a peach and took a bite. Usually, he would peal them, but now he didn’t care.

He couldn’t help but to sigh when he tasted the fruity flesh and when the sweetness of the fruit touched his tongue. It was better than heaven.

Within the blink, of a moment the peach was gone and he was licking his fingers. He couldn’t just clean them with his cloak. That would be childish.

His Aunt seemed amused by his actions.

“They grow on the terraces of the great pyramids like weed. Another good reason to save this city,” she jested and took a bite from her own peach. She ate as greedily as Ghost when he tore apart his prey, wetness streaking her lips and chin.

There was something endearing and arousing about it. He realized that when he felt his manhood harden. It made him also realize that it had been too long that he had last taken a girl to bed…

He averted his gaze and quickly thought of Catelyn Stark. Her icy looks never failed to drive away his lust.

“Do you want another one?” she asked then and held up the last peach.

“No, thank you,” he replied and picked a date from the bowl. “I had enough peaches. They are too sweet for my taste…and I would prefer to hear about the preparations. I doubt Ben Plumm will allow me to join them until I can stand on my own two feet.”

His Aunt sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

“According to Ben Plumm’s outriders the enemy is still in Astapor. We are preparing the city for a siege, but Ben Plumm and Daario think that it will take another week before anything happens. Barristan thinks it would be better to retreat to Meereen, but I disagree with this notion. Running away would encourage our enemy only more.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed and lifted his cup to his lips. He had re-filled it earlier, before his Aunt’s arrival. “This battle will be decisive for the future of your cause.”

He saw the fear in her deep violet eyes, but also determination. She was trying to appear brave, like Arya.

“Do you think we have a chance?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. “You have seen the enemy…,”

“They have more men,” he gave her the truth. “But numbers are not the only deciding factor in a battle. If my trap works many of them will be weakened by the plague. And the sellswords…well there is always a chance to sway them to our cause. I suggest speaking to them before the battle is done. They have one thing in common…they like to talk.”

“They do,” she replied with amusement and leaned closer to touch his hand. “And in regard to the sellswords…Daario made an interesting suggestion. He thinks we might be able to get the Tattered Prince on our side.

Jon felt the urge to return the gesture, but instead he pulled his hand away.

It would only make it harder once he revealed the truth.

“What suggestion did he make?” he asked and decided to change the topic.

“The Tattered Prince has always desired Pentos. Daario thinks we should promise him to re-take in exchange for his help. What do you think?”

“A good idea,” Jon agreed. “But we shouldn’t agree to such a bargain without gaining something in return.”

“Illyrio was the one who convinced my brother to sell me to Khal Drogo,” she explained her reasoning. “He has ships and gold. By taking the city all that is his would be ours. Think about it…we would have enough gold and ships to re-take what is _ours_.”

_Ours_ , Jon thought. Nothing had ever been his. It made the idea only more enticing.

_No,_  he reminded himself.  _I cannot allow myself such attachments…soon Daenerys will send me away._

“Good idea,” he replied instead, trying his best to overplay his discomfort. Then, forced a smile over his lips and touched his bed. “And now I need rest. I shall join your war council on the morrow.”

His Aunt looked taken back by his words.

_I am such a fool_ , he realized then. _I haven’t even thanked her._

“Daenerys,” he called after her before she had slipped out of the door. “Thank you for coming to help us. I appreciate the risk you took on my behalf.”

She stared back at him in silence, a hesitant smile crossing her lips.

“You are my blood. I promised to protect you.”

…


	18. The Sun's Son

**The Sun’s Son**

_Mysha is coming. The dragons are coming. Daenerys Targaryen will descend upon us with fire and blood._

All these rumors and many more he had heard from the mouths of the other sellswords on their long ride to Astapor.

Quentyn didn’t know what to make of all these rumors, but it was all that they had. Ever since, his departure from Dorne, he had been blind and deaf to anything that had happened at home. Of course, they had heard rumors, but rumors were akin to fairy tales. One might be able to find a corn of truth in them, but not more than that.

The same must be thought of the rumors concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Before his father had sent him to Essos he had been told that she was a wee girl of ten and five and that she was pretty to behold, but what he had heard of her so far made him believe otherwise. Daenerys Targaryen had supposedly been sold to a Dothraki horselord, had supposedly woken dragons from stone, had supposedly marched her host through the Red Waste, had supposedly killed the Undying and had sacked three cities, before naming herself Queen of Meereen. Whatever his father had claimed, must have been false, for he couldn’t imagine that some soft-hearted girl would be able to do such things.

 _Mayhaps she is another Rhaenyra Targaryen_ , his friend Gerris Drinkwater had jested over a cup of wine.  _Well, at least you won’t be bored while keeping her bed warm, Quent._

Quentyn had been less amused. He had never bedded a woman, let alone a madwoman, but to Gerris everything was a jest. The sky could be dark and threatening, but Gerris Drinkwater would still have a smile on his lips.

That had been three days ago, after a long ride under the burning sun. Quent had been born and bred beneath an even hotter sun, but he had still sought comfort beneath the shady trees lining the dusty road towards Astapor. The flies and mosquitos were worse, slipping even through the silken nets they used to cover their sleeping places. This morning he had counted three more bites, but by now he had stopped caring. He had endured too much to run away from his destiny.

 _I am a Prince of Dorne. Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken_ , as the saying of House Martell went. His forbearers didn’t bend the knee to the dragons and thus he wouldn’t bend to the whims of mosquitos and his silly fears.

Yet when they reached the gates of Astapor he felt a dark foreboding overcome him.

Quentyn didn’t know why, but to him the city looked dead and deserted.

“The Red City,” Greenguts remarked and waved his hand at the blood red and crumbling walls of Astapor. He was a big bald knight from Dorne and to everyone among the Windblown, the sellswords company they had joined, Quentyn’s master and lord.

It was a humbling life. In Dorne Quentyn had been a prince, in Volantis a merchant’s man, but once he had set foot on the shores of Slaver’s Bay he had changed his name again. In the blink of an eye he had become Frog, a squire to Greenguts, though the other sellswords hardly ever used that name. They usually called him “you” or “boy” and when they were really mean they called him “Froggy.”

Not that Quentyn was surprised by the lack of proper names. Many free companies had been born and had disappeared like the seasons. Their life was as unstable as their names. Death was ever present.

The Windblown were not much different. They had been formed about thirty years ago by a soft-spoken Pentoshi noblemen commonly known as the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn had only seen him from afar. His hair and mail were silver-grey, but his ragged cloak was made of twists of cloth of many colors, blue and grey and purple, red and gold and green, magenta and perhaps cerulean. His sister Arianne would have known, she always had a liking for bright colors, but he brushed these memories away before they could take hold of his mind. Thinking of his home made him sad.

The story of the Tattered Prince, like of his future bride, was even more captivating. As the story went, the magisters of Pentos had chosen him to be their new prince, hours after beheading their old prince. Yet instead of accepting his fate he had fastened his sword, had mounted his stead and had fled to the Disputed lands. He had ridden with many companies since that day and then he had eventually formed his own company, the Windblown. Of its six founders only the Tattered Prince remained.

“What are you waiting for boy! Out of the way!” the booming voice of their sergeant called him back to the present. He was a hulk of a man and commonly known as Hammerhand Dick, for his preference to slash his enemies’ heads with a warhammer. Quentyn couldn’t help but to be reminded of King Robert. He had never met the Stag King, but even in Dorne they knew him as a fearsome warrior, though his Uncle Oberyn preferred to call him the “Fat Stag” or “the Drunken Fool.”

“Be careful what you say, Dick!” Greenguts snapped back and unsheathed his shiny blade. He was the best swordsman of their group and even Dick Hammerhead wouldn’t have easy play with him. “Frog is a clumsy fool, but I won’t see him harmed. I am fond of my Froggy.”

Quentyn felt again like a little boy. Arianne had always given him strange nicknames as a child, though he had returned the favor. She had been a rather pudgy child and thus he had dubbed her “piggy” something she had never forgiven him. Now years after, Arianne had changed into a beauty while Quentyn was still the plain-looking boy he had always been. At times, especially when he looked as his well-built companion Gerris, he believed that the gods must have punished him for his vanity.

All he could hope for that fifty-thousand Dornish spears would be enough to sway Princess Daenerys’ heart.

“Very well,“ Dick Hammerhead replied and spit on the ground before Greenguts. “Now move. Astapor is waiting for us.”

His words had turned out to be true, but not in the way they had expected.

Astapor had indeed been waiting for them, but no sign of the enemy could be seen.

They had approached the city gates carefully, their light cavalry riding circles before the city gates while the Ghiscari legions had been placed upon the hills surrounding the city. Behind them and at the flanks their heavy cavalry had taken their places. The Company of the Cat, led by the infamous Bloodbeard, had been placed on the left flank while their company, the Windblown, had taken position on the right flank.

Thus, they had remained, waiting for the enemy’s movement, but nothing had happened. Eventually, after their leaders had realized that no enemy would come for them, they decided to storm the gates.

The brazen fools that had stormed the gates had been led by the Bloodbeard. Quickly enough, the Ghiscari infantry followed and then the few thousand men that had been provided by the exiled masters from Yunkai. Their own men had been eager to join, but the Tattered Prince had advised his sergeants and captains to stay behind and to watch lands surrounding the city for further enemy movements.

 _It could be a trap_ , Dick Hammerhead had told them when Drink, the name Gerris Drinkwater had given himself to hide his identity, had pestered him about their lack of participation.  _Let us rest while the Bloodbeard_ _is doing our work._

Not long after Bloodbeard’s men had managed to break the city gates, but again the Tattered Prince held his men back. Instead he had ordered them to make camp.

They obeyed and built tents, gathered wood and fed their horses while the Bloodbeard’s plundered the city.

The sun was already disappearing behind Astapor’s red walls when they were allowed to enter the city, though once he ridden through the broken gates, Quentyn wished he had never come here.

Astapor was no city, it was hell on earth, a city of death and ruin.

The streets had been littered with a river of corpses, on the spacious plazas they had found hundreds of pyres heaped with ash and the remains of human bones. They scoured the pyramids and the houses, for a sign of life and food, but all they found were corpses and more corpses. Some had been so infested with maggots and flies that they had to carry torches to keep the swarms of flies at bay.

Yet the smell had been the worst. It was a mixture of sweetness and foulness, unlike anything Quentyn had ever smelled.

Drink and Greenguts had barely been able to keep their fast inside their stomach and even the Ghiscari were hesitant to remain in the city, weren’t it for the fact that they had need of water. Only Blackbeard and his horde of pickpockets seemed to thrive in this rotten environment. The night had barely fallen, before they had salvaged the casks from the masters’ wine cellars and had started to drown themselves in it.

Some of their men had joined too, but the majority had not. The Tattered Prince was a soft-spoken man, but he had firm rules in his company and one of those was: no wine while on campaign, though instead they had a flock of pretty girls following after them and attending to the men’s needs. Not long ago, Drink had sent one of the girls into his tent, but Quentyn had sent her away. She hadn’t been ugly by any means, but her smell had disgusted him.

Drink had laughed about him that night, but on the next day he had apologized, but that hadn’t been enough to ease Quentyn’s hurt pride.

Quentyn would have preferred a cup of wine, but instead of taking some of the casks for his own the Tattered Prince had sent them out to scout the surrounding area for a water place.

They had been successful in their endeavor, but the men had grumbled as it had taken them nearly half a day to find a brook in this dry landscape.

Astapor was a place of hell, but full of cisterns and wells filled with water. That the Ghiscari and Bloodbeard’s men had mocked them for it had cut even deeper.

That is until the fools had found out that the wells had been soiled with bloated corpses.

The Ghiscari had been horrified, but the Bloodbeard hadn’t cared. Instead he and his men had continued drowning themselves in wine.

Two days had passed since then and many of the sellswords, who had been deprived of a good fight, were growing bored and were resorting to whoring, gambling and mock fights. Quentyn watched Greenguts play a game of dices with someone called Old Bill Bones. The other sellswords loved Greenguts, who bet as fearlessly as he swung his sword, but sadly he was never blessed with luck.

Greenguts lost again and again, but there was only so much time one could waste with gambling. Yet when the first men were beginning to fall sick, Quentyn wished that wasting time would be the least of his problems…

It started with a hundred men from the Company of the Cat and two hundred men from the two Ghiscari legions, but soon everyone who had consumed water or wine from the city fell sick. The Bloodbeard was only one among many.

Quentyn had not seen him die, but even those that had despised him had felt pity for him in the end. They say he had bled out all the wine he had consumed, before his skin had turned as dry as the desert of Dorne and he had begged one of his subordinates to cut his throat.

“The Bloody Flux,” Dick had told them not long after, his voice laced with fear. “Bless our Prince. He saw the painting at the wall and spared us such a terrible fate.”

And while the Tattered Prince had spared them the same fate, he hadn’t been able to spare them the fate of becoming gravediggers for their fallen comrades.

Thus, instead of fighting, they spent their time burying and burning those that had perished by the plague. Quentyn thought it would never end, but after a week had passed the dying ceased, though that was not much of a comfort.

Half of the men from the first Ghiscari legion had perished and the while the men from the second Ghiscari legion had fared better, some of them were still on the way of recover. Yet the Company of the Cat had been hit the worst. Two third of their numbers had perished.

 _The worst is over_ , the Tattered Prince had supposedly told his captains and sergeants after two more days had passed without another sick case.  _Now we can finally march on Yunkai._

The exiled slave masters from Yunkai had supposedly agreed with him and so had the leaders of the two Ghiscair legions that had joined them barely a day ago. These two fresh legions were supposed to march for Yunkai while their two legions were meant to hold Astapor, but now after so many of their comrades had perished through the plague, it was unavoidable to bolster their rows with these fresh troopes while the sick ones would return to New Ghis.

 _They will still piss themselves when they have to face the real Unsullied_ , Denzo D’han, one of their captains and a veteran of a hundred battles had declared after he had overheard their heated discussion.

They had marched from dusk till dawn to put an appropriate distance to Astapor, but in the end Quentyn had only wished for rest.

Yet there was always something to do. Armor to polish, tents to build and food to cook.

That night he was also ordered to endure the first watch and to guard the horselines.

It had taken all his willpower to keep himself from falling asleep.

The sun was rising on the distant horizon when Drink came to see him.

“Where is the big man?” he asked, referring to Greenguts.

“He’s gone to lose the rest of his silver,” Drink said. “Leave him out of this. He will do what he has to do, despite his complaints.”

Quentyn was much the same. He had done many things he disliked, all to make his father proud. He had sailed on an overcrowded ship tossed by wind and sea, eating hard bread and drinking bitter ale, sleeping on piles of straw and had endured many more misfortunes, all for a pretty princess. It felt like living a song, only Quentyn didn’t feel like one of these heroic princes, but like a fool.

And while he had accepted all this as part of the great adventure he had embarked on, he was now about to commit plain treachery.

Their comrades in arms were hard men, but Quentyn had shared their mead and had traded tales with them. It was not honorable, no matter how often Drink tried to justify it.

Yet this time, it seemed as if the gods had heard their pleas, for a day later they were suddenly called to the Tattered Prince’s tent.

It was sour Hungerford who had led them to the commander’s tent, a great grey sailcloth pavilion.

It took him only the blink of a moment to realize that most of the assembled men hailed from the Seven Kingdoms. Most of them were probably exiles or the sons of exiles. Dick Straw, friend of Dick Hammerhead had claimed not long ago that there were three score of Westerosi serving in their company and it seemed many of them were among these men. There was Dick himself, Hugh Hungerford, Pretty Meris and a man named golden-haired Lewis Lanister. Denzo D’han was also there, with huge Caggo beside him. Strangely, neither was Westerosi, but both of them were captains and the Tattered Prince’s right and left hand.

Something is going on here, Quentyn realized at once.

“The slavers wants us to scout ahead,” the Tattered Prince explained. “They think the Dragon Queen could prepare another trap for us. That is why I am going to send one third of our men into the hills. What is left of the Company of the Cat will follow, but they will ride among their own.”

Whispers could be heard and fearful looks were exchanged between the men. Neither company liked each other, but the fact that some of them might carry a deadly disease made these men only more fearful.

“But why make us ride together, m’lord?” Dick asked. “We have never broken up the company by blood or tongue. Why now?”

“A fair question,” the Tattered Prince granted, his sad grey eyes sweeping over them. “I want you to split up and ride for Yunkai or better said…should you come about one of the Dragon Queen’s sellswords, namely the Second Sons or the Stormcrows…well, I want you to go over to them.”

“To go over to them?” asked Dick Hammerhead. “You want us to turn our cloaks?”

“I would,” confirmed the Tattered Prince.

Quentyn had a hard time to keep his laughter at bay. Mayhaps the gods hadn’t cursed him after all.

“And you think the Dragon Queen will welcome us?” Hugh Hungerford asked and made a sour face. “And then? Are we spies? Are you really thinking of changing sides?”

“That is not for you to decide,” Caggo grumbled. “You will do as you are told.”

“Always,” Hungerford swore and raised his hand that consisted of only two fingers.

“Then let us be frank,” added Denzo D’han. “The exiled masters from Yunkai are bumbling fools. The only men of worth are the Ghiscari legions and what is left of the Company of the Cat. Yet only yesterday fifty of the Ghiscari legions have fallen sick. The disease is still spreading. That is why I think our prince is wise to keep all roads open.”

The Tattered Prince had listened in silence and had obviously taken this as agreement by all parties.

“Meris will command you,” he declared at last and rose to his feet. “She knows my mind in this…and Daenerys Targaryen may be more accepting of another woman.”

Quentyn didn’t know if he could agree with that when he laid eyes on Pretty Meris.

She had cold, dead eyes. They made him shudder.

And yet it was their only chance to get to Princess Daenerys.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next pov: Daenerys
> 
> Red Door and Fate will be updated within the next two days.


	19. When dragons kiss

**Daenerys**

Dany held her hands over the roaring flames of the brazier. The ride from Meereen had been marked by heat and strife, but as hot as the days were the nights could get just as chilly.

Even garbed in her wool dress and her hrakkar pelt wrapped around her shoulders, she felt cold.

Perhaps it was not the chill, but her last interaction with Jon had left her chilled.

He had always been cordial towards her and sometimes even playful, but since she had reunited with him in Yunkai he had avoided her at every turn.

At first, she thought he might be angry that he had been forced to give up Astapor, but now she was sure that there was a different reason for his sour mood.

“Mistress,” Missandei’s voice filled her ears and caused her to turn around. She was already wearing her nightgown and her hair was braided. Dany usually took her as her bed companion, but the little scribe had been exhausted while Dany had remained awake and thus she had allowed Missandei to sleep in Jhiqui’s and Irri’s chamber. “Greyworm came to see you.”

Dany smiled and gave the little scribe an approving nod.

“Please let him in.”

“At once,” Missandei replied and a heartbeat later Greyworm entered.

He was garbed in his uniform and carried his usual stoic expression. Only his helmet was missing.

“Missandei informed me that you wish to speak with me, your Grace,” Greyworm greeted her and dipped his head.

“I did,” she confirmed with a smile, but was unsure how to approach the topic she wanted to speak about. “Say, Greyworm…Do you care for a cup of wine?”

I didn’t surprise her when he refused her offer.

“We Unsullied do not drink before battle,” he explained and eyed the flagon of wine, she had placed at the table, with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust.

The Unsullied harbored a strange curiosity for things that most people would consider common, yet at times they were almost shy to try out new things.

“The battle won’t happen on the morrow,” Dany countered and rose to her feet to open the flagon of wine. Two cups were already there and she filled hers half-full. “I will make an exception tonight.”

Yet Greyworm remained stubborn as ever.

“I am a captain, their leader. I would be a bad example for the other Unsullied, your Grace.”

Dany sighed and lifted the cup to her lips. It was watered wine mixed with fruit syrup, but it was better than fermented milk or simple water.

And yet she didn’t enjoy it as much as she had hoped for.

“You are shaming us all with your perfect conduct, Greyworm,” Dany added teasingly and sat down on the pelt she had spread over the chair. “But I did not call you here to speak about wine…I asked you to come here to speak about Jon.”

If Greyworm was surprised it didn’t show on his face.

“Jon Snow,” he repeated and searched her gaze. “What about him, your Grace.”

“He has been acting strangely…as if he is not quite himself,” Dany tried to explain and smoothed the pelt. “Perhaps you noticed it as well?”

“I noticed it, your Grace,” Greyworm repeated and sounded as if he did not quite know what to make of her question. “I do not understand.”

Dany sighed. She should have been blunter.

“What I am trying to say…,” she forced the words over her lips. “Did something happen during your campaign in Astapor?”

Dany wasn’t sure, but she believed to see a hint of realization on Greyworm’s face.

“Your Grace,” Greyworm replied hesitatingly, which surprised her. A true Unsullied was seldom hesitant, but then she hadn’t expected either that they would seek out brothels to cuddle with courtesans. “I think this one knows what ails Jon Snow’s mind. I think it has to do with the sick Astapori and what we did to give them peace.”

“Give them peace?” she asked and re-filled her cup. She didn’t drink though, only watched the red liquid move as she circled the cup between her fingers. “What are you trying to say?”

Greyworm swallowed calmly and drew closer.

“I should have chosen my words better, your Grace,” he explained and averted his gaze. “I shouldn’t have said ‘we gave them mercy’. When we arrived in Astapor the plague had broken out and many of those we found there were doomed to die a painful death, either by the hands of the enemy or the plague. Thus, when the time came to abandon the city, Jon Snow did what every Unsullied would have done, but well, Jon is not an Unsullied. I think there is your reason for his behavior…,” he trailed off.

“I see,” Dany said and shuddered. She didn’t need to hear the details, to know what an Unsullied would do when he was confronted with the dying. And the fact that they had been forced to abandon Astapor made only clearer to her who they had handled the doomed.

 _To give them mercy_ , Greyworm had told her and yet she still didn’t understand why Jon was cold towards her…

She sighed deeply and shifted her attention back to Greyworm, who was still waiting for her answer.

“Thank you,” she replied and smiled at her loyal captain. “You may return to your quarters.”

Greyworm dipped his head.

“Greyworm is always pleased to serve.”

When Greyworm had left, Dany discarded her lion pelt and fastened her cloak around her shoulders, before slipping out of her chamber.

She needed to speak to Jon. It was the only way to resolve this matter.

When she arrived at his chamber, Ghost was the first one to greet her.

At first, Dany had been afraid of the massive wolf, but by now she had gotten used to his constant presence.

Ghost wasn’t really that much different from her children, fearsome and gentle, depending on their moods.

“Did you wait for me?” she asked the wolf and stretched out her hand towards him.

Ghost lifted his head and licked her hand, before rolling to the side. Then, he closed his eyes and allowed her entrance.

Smiling at Ghost, she knocked at the door and entered when she heard Jon’s muffled voice.

“Daenerys…,” Jon began when he had noticed her entrance. He was seated at his sleeping place, his brown hair disheveled from bed. “What brings you here?”

Hearing her name from his lips pleased her. Most of the time he called her “Aunt” or “your Grace”, especially when they were in presence of other people.

“You didn’t expect me,” she remarked teasingly. “Did I wake you?”

“No, you didn’t,” he assured her with a shake of his head. His face had finally regained some color, but he still looked like the most miserable person in this city. “I was already awake.”

She couldn’t help but to frown. She had preferred it when he was blunt with her.

She would say that she even missed his bluntness.

She wanted the old Jon back.

And the only way to achieve that was to address the elephant in the room.

“Greyworm told me what happened in Astapor,” she said and came to stand in front of him. “Is that the reason you have been avoiding me?”

Within the matter of a heartbeat, Jon’s head had snapped up, his dark eyes alight with a mixture of surprise and misery.

“It is true,” he admitted and sucked in a deep breath. Yet he didn’t avert his gaze, even when Dany drew closer. “It is true.”

Frustrated by his tongue-tied behavior, Dany sat down next to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked and searched his face. In the past you never held back with your opinion. I thought you were angry with me.”

A mixture of shock and guilt glittered in his dark eyes, though in the candlelight they had a touch of purple.

It felt as if the candlelight revealed his dragon-like qualities. Mayhaps there was truly a dragon residing beneath his icy façade. The thought excited her, her heart fluttering like a butterfly caught in a storm.

She sat barely two armlengths away from him. It made her wonder what he would do if she kissed him…

She knew it was wrong to think like that. She was a Queen, but the enemy was coming for them and they might all just die.

“The child hostages,” Jon said and broke the silence between them. “I told you to execute them, but when I had to do the same…I mean I did it, there is no denying the truth, but I thought it would be easier…and now I feel like a monster, but the reason I haven’t told you until now is….that I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Dany was taken back by his words. Those serving her were always careful about pleasing her, but the only family member she had known would have never shown such concerns.

Viserys had been her brother. He had fed and protected her, but he had never cared for her beyond being his possession and in the end he had sold her like one.

Jon Snow, despite her initial distrust towards him, had never lied to her.

No, by now she had realized the truth.

He was not the Mummer’s Dragon, but the blue flower.

She still didn’t know what the flower meant, but mayhaps she had been wrong from the beginning.

 _There is still the treason for love_ , she recalled, but that could have been Ser Jorah. He had claimed to love her and had betrayed her.

Jon Snow, she was sure, would never betray her and if he did she would be able to see it displayed in his dark eyes.

His face may be made of ice, but his eyes where their own world.

Again, she took a glimpse at his lips and then back at his eyes.

Brushing these distracting thoughts away, she leaned closer and touched his cheeks, forcing him to look at her.

He froze, but made no attempt to stop her. It seemed as if he had expected a different reaction from her.

 _He really thought I would hate him_ , she realized then, her heart swelling with warmth.

“I do not hate you,” she assured him and wetted her lips. Her throat felt dry, despite the wine she had consumed. “And I certainly do not think you are monster. And everything you told me is true. Making peace with the slavers was a foolish notion. The Green Grace and Hizdahr have been playing their games with me and only your sickly rider was able to rouse me from my delusions. I still abhor killing children nor do I have any intention to murder them for the crimes of their parents, but you were still right to point out the truth to me. I can’t be neither too soft-hearted nor too harsh. I need to find the right balance. Just like you.”

“Me?” he asked, his eyes widening. “I killed…,” he was about to continue, but Dany cut him off.

“You gave them peace,” she countered quickly, before he was able contradict her, her hand brushing through his hair. “I would have done the same, even if it pained me to do so. You have no reason to feel ashamed,” she added softly and leaned forward to place her lips on his, finally giving into her longing.

Jon’s lips felt pleasantly warm, but only briefly. His lips also tasted of blood and when she stopped kissing him, he immediately backed away.

His expression could only be described as flabbergasted. He looked back at her as if she was the first girl that had kissed him.

She touched her lips, the taste of iron still lingering in her mouth. He must have bitten his lips.

Ignoring the blood, she smiled and decided to break the silence that had settled over them. Teasing was always the best ice-breaker, though knowing her grim nephew she wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

“Tell me, have you ever kissed a girl, Jon Snow?” she asked and watched him carefully. She had heard him speak about whores and thus she had assumed that he had lain with plenty of girls.

“Whores do not kiss,” Jon Snow countered quickly. “That’s only something proper girls do, but I never had a proper girl in my bed.”

It became clear to her how much his admission had cost him when his long brown hair brushed his chest.

His glimmering dark eyes told her so much more.  _No, proper girl would bed a bastard._

Yet Dany had a hard time believing that not a single proper girl in the North had found Jon Snow pretty enough to kiss him.

Either these northern girls were fools or blind.

“I am a widow,” she replied jestingly and leaned closer. “But I think I still count as a proper girl.”

Suddenly, Jon Snow started to smile and pushed his forehead against hers, his hand brushing her cheek and his warm breath brushing over her lips.

She felt lightheaded and couldn’t help but to be amused by his actions. Any normal boy would have ravished her by now.

“A proper girl wouldn’t say such things,” he whispered, his voice a pleasant burr to her ears. It sent shivers coursing through her body, from the top of her head all the way down to her toes. “Especially not a Princess.”

“I was never a real princess, not until I hatched my dragons,” she admitted to the truth and watched him carefully. “And you were never a bastard.”

It seemed that had been the assurance he needed, for heartbeat later kissed her softly, then more forcefully, prying her lips apart to taste her.

The sensation made her head swim, banishing away all her worrisome thoughts at once.

He seemed to enjoy this as much as her, as he kissed her some more, with tongue and then with teeth, nibbling on her lips. It was enough to send blood coursing through her core.

He seemed to share her feelings, the evidence of his desire brushing against her belly after she had somehow landed in his lap.

He gasped in her mouth as she pressed herself flushed against him, giving her confirmation of what she had wished for. That he wanted her just as much as she had wanted him.

It felt as if something had snapped inside her, her hand slipping inside his breeches, palming him. He gave a horse moan against her cheek and kissed her brow while his hand fondled her breast.

She touched him in turn, just as Doreah had shown her such a long time ago, a muffled moan leaving his lips as he rutted against her.

She expected him to spill on her hand, but he stopped her before anything like that could have happened.

Breathing heavily, he regarded her, his dark eyes blown.

Dany could see the conflict in his eyes, but she wanted to hear none of it. Soon, she would have to give all of this up again or die…

It was wrong, but then she pulled her nightgown over her head and discarded it on the ground.

Again, he stared back at her in silence.

This time, Dany bridged the distance and kissed him, yet he didn’t put up much resistance, his lips preying hers apart as if he had done this a hundred times before.

As she continued to kiss him, she pulled impatiently on his breeches. Understanding the meaning of his actions, he pulled his tunic over his head. She had seen him naked before, but all felt new to her now as she brushed her hands over his chest and shapely thighs after she had helped him get rid of his breeches.

Kissing him again, she straddled him, his cock hard against her stomach.

Eventually, he let go of her mouth, probably to catch his breath, his hand palming her right breast and his mouth kissing the other one. Warmth trickled down her spine and she shuddered at his touch.

Longing to still the emptiness inside her, she clutched his face and kissed him fiercely. He returned her kiss with equal favor while her hand touched his cock, slipping him inside her easily.

He gave a grunt of pleasure, his brow pressed against hers as she rolled her hips. This too, Doreah had taught her.

Soft gasps left his mouth as she continued to swerve her hips with practiced movements, his eyes shut and his mouth slightly open. Soon, her stomach was throbbing with a familiar heat she had desired for so long. She quickened her pace, their breathing growing louder with every buck of her hips.

Panting, he clutched her head and kissed her deeply, before a low cry escaped his lips.

Then, she felt it. The pulse of his cock and the warmth of his seed.

She fluttered around him, warmth engulfing her fully as he clung to him, her head resting on her shoulder.

Once he had softened, he sank down on the bed, exhausted and spend.

She laid down next to him and watched him as she came slowly back to himself. As his dark eyes cleared, she realized that he had been just as lost as her.

They were fools. Utter fools. She knew all that, but it had felt so good.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he told her, his voice soft, as he brushed her disheveled hair out of her face. “I could get you with child…”

His words felt like a slap to her face, though he couldn’t have known any better.

She had never told him.

“That is why I have never kissed a proper girl,” he told her then, probably spurned on by her shocked reaction. “I do not like the idea of fathering bastard children…,” he trailed off and averted his gaze.

He was such kind fool. His words made her fears melt away and she couldn’t help but to smile as she leaned down to touch his cheek, forcing him to look at her again.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow. I am a Queen and no child of mine would ever be called a bastard. This I can promise you.”

Not that she would ever have a child, but seeing Jon Snow’s smile was reward enough.

“Aye, I suppose I truly know nothing.”

Dany chuckled and curled up beside him.

“That was only a manner of speaking,” she explained and pulled the bedding over them, her eyes growing heavy. “You do know a lot of things. I have seen that often enough. Don’t let other people tell you otherwise.”

“I won’t…,” he promised and pulled his arm around her shoulder, his eyes fluttering close. “I won’t.”

…


	20. The Septa and the Dwarf

 

**Tyrion**

“But Why? Why do I have to cut my hair? Many boys have long hair,” he heard Sansa’s pleading voice. She, the Septa and Ysilla, the tiller’s wife, had washed each other with water from a round pot and a sponge. Not long after, the Septa had returned with her knife and had started cutting off her hair until it was as short as a finger, before she had announced to Sansa that she must do the same. Not much to Tyrion’s surprise the Sansa had given the Septa a horrified look as if she had asked her to travel naked.

Well, they had been half-naked while they were washing and Tyrion had stolen some glimpses at his female companions, but that was not the point. The point was that they would soon leave the Qartheen merchant ship that had transported them all the way to the shores of Slaver’s Bay. Once, they would leave the ship, it would be very advisable if Sansa no longer looked like a pretty maid.

That her dark hair had changed back to its natural red color had amused the Septa and their other companions. The boy commonly called young Griff had quickly joined Sansa and had washed off the blueish hair paste he used to hide his silver hair. The ever-grim Griff had grumbled in displeasure, but had accepted the boy’s will after he had argued that he couldn’t meet his bride when he looked like a Tyroshi sellsword.

Looking at the boy now, with his short-cropped silver hair and his bluish-purple eyes, it was not hard to imagine that he was Rhaegar Targaryen’s seed, but then Tyrion had seen many a silver-haired and purple-eyed girl in the brothels of Essos. It wouldn’t be hard to dress up a boy and call him a dragon. That Prince Aegon had been killed as an infant was even more convenient, but there was another piece in this puzzle that made it somewhat believable to Tyrion, namely the existence of old Griff or better said Jon Connington, formerly the Lord of Griffin Roost. Even Tyrion had heard of this man, who had once served as King Aerys Hand of the King and had later been exiled for his failure at the Battle of the Bells. He seemed utterly convinced that the boy was born from his Prince’s seed and Tyrion was sure that many would believe his word. His good-brother Robert hadn’t been wrong when he had believed that there were still those who held sympathies for the Targaryens. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen would receive support from these people, even Tyrion was convinced. Yet his ascension to the throne would also be the death blow for House Lannister, though mayhaps it was just as possible that the boy would prove generous and grant Tyrion what he had always desired, namely Casterly Rock.

 _Maybe I could even convince the boy to spare Jaime_ , he mused, though he had his doubts when he thought of old Griff.

“Aye,” the Septa granted the girl and brushed her hand through her shortly-cropped hair. It was plain brown and slightly curled at the edge, now even more so than before. “But cutting it off will be good for your hair.”

Sansa gave her a stunned look and fingered her long hair. Like the Septa she was garbed in her underclothes, her nipples visible through the white wool. Tyrion had to avoid looking at them while the rest of his travelling companions seemed completely unfazed by the women’s state of undress. Griff was seated at a table and reading through a heap of parchments. Haldon was crunching herbs and filling them into small bundles and the tiller’s wife was repairing one of her dresses. Only Duck, who was sparring with young Griff was occasionally stealing glances at the girls.

“How so?” Sansa asked the Septa, her face full of disbelief. “What are you trying to say?”

“Hair gets damaged through such hair pastes, my girl. Young Griff can tell you all about it. Cutting it off will help  to heal the damage.”

“Lemore speaks true,” young Griff agreed with the Septa and brushed his hand through his freshly-cropped silver hair. “Your hair will feel as good as new, my Lady.”

“Very well,” Sansa agreed, but continued pouting. “I shall head “his Grace” advise and hope for the best.”

The boy seemed mightily pleased by Sansa’s agreement and grinned from one ear to the other, though it probably had something to do with the fact Sansa had taken up to call him “his Grace”. And while it didn’t surprise Tyrion that Sansa was acting like that, he found it a bit pre-mature to call the boy “his Grace”. What he had seen of him was promising, but a King needed to be more than a perfectly-trained puppet of his advisors, but perhaps that was exactly what Varys and Illyrio hoped for. The question that remained was if Princess Daenerys Targaryen would allow them to use her in the same manner…

“You won’t regret it, my Lady.”

Thus, Septa Lemore started to cut off Sansa’s mane of red hair. It was a pity to see the pretty hair go, but even Tyrion agreed that it would be better for Sansa to pose as a boy.

Once, the Septa was done Sansa sported shorter hair than Tyrion, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that she had a pretty face. Most men wouldn’t care about the lack of hair. There were plenty of men who would rape a pretty boy just as quickly as a pretty girl.

That is why it didn’t surprise Tyrion when the Septa pressed a small dagger into Sansa’s hand. “Hide it beneath your tunic.”

Sansa’s face had turned to ash when her blue eyes fell upon the dagger in her hand, but she didn’t refuse the gift. Instead she had graced the Septa with an unsure smile and had accompanied Lemore and Ysilla below deck to dress.

Not long after, they returned, Sansa sat down next to Duck, Young Griff, Haldon and Duck, who were breaking their fast on baked snails and roasted onions. Tyrion’s stomach was empty, but what he truly wished for was a cup of wine, a pleasure that had been denied to him by Old Griff. 

 _No wine_ , he had told him.  _We have no need of a drunken dwarf._

“You look lost, Hugor,” the Septa’s voice snapped him back to the present. He had been watching the clouds drifting over the sky. They were beautiful to look upon; pink and purple they were and one looked like a dragon. Maybe it was a sign. “This might help to lift your spirits.”

She was baring her teeth as she showed him the small flagon she had hidden beneath her white robes, clinched at the waist with a woven band of seven colors.

Her smile could have woken a dead man. It was a pretty smile of white. Her teeth were better than most teeth and made him only more convinced that she must have once lived a different kind of life. A commoner wouldn’t have such proper teeth.

That she was a Septa and from the North intrigued him even more. It was common knowledge that the people of the North worshipped the Old Gods. Followers of the Seven were scarce in the North, safe for White Harbor. Mayhaps that is where this odd Septa hailed from, though he doubted she would tell him if he asked her.

“What is it?” he asked and grinned, though he knew what was inside the bottle after she had opened it.

It was wine.

“Ghiscari wine. Dry and bitter, but better than nothing.”

Tyrion preferred Westerosi wine, but he had been starved for wine. He didn’t hesitate to pick the flagon from her hand and took a quick gulp. The wine was as dry and bitter as the Septa had promised, but the taste helped to ease his worries.

“Ah, thank you,” he replied and handed the flagon back to the Septa. “I think you just saved my soul.”

The Septa chuckled and hid the flagon beneath her robes, before her gaze darted to Sansa, who wrinkled her nose as Ysilla roasted another snail over the cookfire.

“The gods do not care for our souls,” the Septa added and jerked her head at the girl. “But this one is very innocent…and quite spoiled. What was Illyrio thinking?”

“I do not know the magister’s mind,” Tyrion replied and drew closer to stand next to the Septa, who was leaning her body against the wooden railing. “As for the girl…she is the daughter of a high lord.”

“A bastard daughter from the North,” the Septa added and frowned. Even when she frowning she looked pretty. Tyrion wasn’t sure, but he believed that she was a bit younger than Cersei. And while she was not as beautiful, there was something enticing about her nimble body and her shapely legs. “Children in the North are rarely cuddled. The girl’s mother must have been from the south. She doesn’t act like a northern girl.”

“You are also from the North, my Lady,” Tyrion countered. “I have never met a Septa hailing from the North.”

“I wasn’t raised in the Faith,” The Septa replied bluntly, her grey eyes meeting his gaze. “I converted when I was a young girl. You would be surprised how eagerly I was welcomed by the Septon.”

“And yet you said that the gods do not care for my soul,” Tyrion repeated her earlier words. “Which makes me believe you do not hold much believe in the Faith or the gods.”

“There are no gods,” the Septa replied almost coldly. “If the gods really existed the world would look differently.”

“How so, my Lady?” he asked with mild curiosity. He had always enjoyed talking about god and the world, especially after he had a sip of wine.  “How would the world be better?”

“The current world is ruled by monsters,” the Septa summed it up. “If the gods existed the world would be ruled by good men. Sadly, that will never be.”

“What you say is true,” Tyrion agreed and eyed the young Prince, who was laughing over one of Duck’s jests. “But I think even good men can become monsters. It is only a matter of time. King Aerys was once a promising King.”

“You are quite right. The Mad King was not always mad,” the Septa countered quickly, her  voice laced with bitterness. “Duskendale turned him into a monster or so I heard. In his youth Robert Baratheon was a good-natured fool with an unsatisfiable lust for women, but in the end he built his throne upon the death of innocents. People say that Aerys lost his crown to Robert because he was a monster, but mayhaps that is the wrong way to look at it. Robert Baratheon slew the monster and became his own kind of monster when he brought about the demise of the Targaryen dynasty.”

Tyrion had listened in silence and was surprised to hear a Northern woman speak so ill of Robert Baratheon, but then she was also a supporter of Prince Aegon. Perhaps her family had been wronged by the Starks. What surprised him even more was that the Septa had spoken as if she had known Robert Baratheon personally.

Tyrion was curious to hear more and thus he decided to play along.

“Robert was a fool,” Tyrion agreed. “He held no interest in being King, which is why he failed so miserably in every way possible. His greatest accomplishment was that he at least didn’t burn people alive. Well, his Hand, Jon Arryn must have been convinced that he would make a good King.”

“Jon Arryn was always a blind fool,” the Septa snorted. “Robert Baratheon could have pissed into a cup and Jon Arryn would have called it the finest wine in the Seven Kingdoms. It doesn’t surprise me that he was blind to Robert’s failures, but even so, Jon Arryn was said to be an honorable man and not cruel of nature. It surprises me that he didn’t talk Robert out of wedding Tywin Lannisters’s daughter, the man responsible for the death of Aegon’s mother and sister. Truly, it makes me question Jon Arryn’s supposed honor. Tywin Lannister lifted not a single finger for the rebel’s cause, but in the end he got a crown for his daughter, which only confirms what I said earlier. The world is ruled by monsters and to rule there is no other way but to become a monster yourself or better said ‘the right kind of monster’.”

Finished with her rant she fell silent and slipped her hand beneath her robes, bringing forth the flagon. She drank deeply, before offering the flagon to him again.

She must have noticed his stunned expression, for she didn’t hesitate to address the elephant in the room.

“I knew Robert Baratheon personally,” she explained and sighed deeply. “It might surprise you, but I was one of Lady Lyanna Stark’s ladies.”

This explained a lot, but the way she had spoken about his late good-brother had sounded so personally…

“You dislike him,” Tyrion remarked and recalled the stretch marks he had seen while she had undressed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole your maidenhead, my Lady. I heard he was a lusty man and you are a beautiful woman.”

“And you are a clever dwarf,” the Septa snapped back and frowned. She didn’t seem angry, but she took another sip from her flagon of wine. “Well, you are wrong. Robert Baratheon never stole my maidenhead. I gave it to the man I loved, the man I chose. He is dead now, murdered by his rival and the man my father wanted to force upon me. The man I loved…he was married.”

The way she had said the last part confused Tyrion. It had sounded like regret.

“Many men are wed and take other women to bed,” Tyrion remarked and shrugged his shoulders. “Is that why you became a Septa? To repent for your sins?”

The Septa shook her head and put the flagon of wine away.

“Perhaps, but the real reason was less admirable. I became a Septa to flee from the man that murdered my beloved…and from certain death.”

“Death?” Tyrion asked. “Was this rival so intent on killing you, my Lady?”

“No, I am sure he would have wed me anyway, but he would have also expected me to birth him babes…,” she trailed off and sucked in a deep breath. Then, she averted her gaze, as if she didn’t want him to see the expression her face. Tyrion imagined her grey eyes wet. “My first babe nearly killed me and the nursemaid said I would be best for me to avoid having more babes. That is the real reason I fled, I wanted to live. Five years, I lived as a Septa, before I met Lord Connington and Prince Aegon…now I feel useful again. That is why I am here. I want to see the boy succeed.”

 _And yet it doesn’t explain why you hate Robert Baratheon ,_ Tyrion mused.

“And your lost babe?” he asked and jerked his head at Prince Aegon. “The boy…Prince Aegon holds much affection for you, my Lady. The boy gives you comfort, doesn’t he?”

Tyrion didn’t know why, but within the blink of a moment the Septa’s head had snapped around, her sharp grey eyes piercing into his. He realized at once that he had overstepped his bounds when she leaned closer and gritted her teeth like a wild animal, ready to tear him apart. Only in the last moment, she regained her composure and exhaled deeply.

“Your wrong,” she replied and shrugged her shoulders.  “My babe is not lost and Aegon had a mother that loved him. I could never replace her nor do I wish to replace my babe with Aegon. I didn’t leave my son willingly. My brother ‘stole’ my babe and that is all I will say about this topic.”

“Understood,” Tyrion replied and graced her with an assuring smile. “I have committed my own share of sins. I would never judge you, my Lady.”

The Septa smiled at him warmly. It was the kind of smile Tyrion Lannister had seldom received in his lifetime. Most were appalled by his appearance, but it seemed the Septa was one of the few people in this world who weren’t disgusted by him. Tysha, his first wife, had been one of these people, but even that had turned out to be another lie. She had been a whore and had deceived him.

“Mayhaps one of these days you might want to share them.”

Tyrion felt the sudden urge to do that, but then he recalled who he was and banished these foolish thoughts to the blackest corner of his mind.

He still returned her smile.

“Mayhaps I will. But I would need better wine.”

“Bad luck for you,” the Septa replied and shrugged her shoulders. “I doubt we will get much wine where we are going. It is going to be a dangerous travel.”

Tyrion could only nod in agreement.

“Very dangerous indeed, my Lady.”

…

 


	21. Lost in the Dark

**Jon**

Everywhere he turned he found darkness. It felt as if the darkness was trying to choke him to death, like so often when he dared enter the crypts of Winterfell.

As children he and Robb had often played among the statues of the Kings of old, pretending to be Lords and Kings. Sometimes, they recalled their names and their histories through the lessons they had learned from Maester Luwin.

By now their stone faces were as familiar to him as the faces of his siblings.

As always, he felt their piercing looks in his back as he continued to move along the dark corridor, trying not to stumble over his own feet.

He felt cold and warm, his heart thrumming loudly as he moved deeper and deeper into the crypts.

He hesitated for a moment when he passed his grandfather’s statue. His had a long and solemn face like his Uncle. Lord Stark had rarely spoken about him and even less about his Uncle Brandon and his Aunt…no, his mother, Lady Lyanna Stark.

Her statue was the only woman in the crypts. As a child, he had often wondered about this fact. 

 _It was because his father loved her so much,_ _Robb had offered as a possible explanation_ , but Jon had his doubts.

If he loved my mother so much why did he treat Jon, her only child, like a fool?

 _He was afraid_ , his guilt-ridden mind whispered.  _He was only a man. Wouldn’t you have done the same to protect your own children?_

Jon knew all that and yet the resentment was still there, poisoning his heart.

Mayhaps Ser Barristan was right. He would have to let go of his anger if he wanted to move forward.

It made him wonder what his mother would have thought of his Uncle’s actions.

His mother’s statue showed a beautiful maid, but looking at a statute was not the same as having a real mother of flesh and blood.

The only woman who could have served as his mother had been Lady Stark, but she had always hated him.

Thinking of her, only helped to increase his resentment. Would she have been more tolerant of him if Lord Stark had told her truth?

Jon thought not, for then he would have posed and even greater danger for her children.

 _She would have hated me either way_ , he knew and stretched out his hand towards his mother’s folded stone hands, but stopped when a cold current of wind washed over him, making his blood breeze.

Jon’s head snapped around, his hair fluttering around his face as he stared into an abyss of darkness.

Suddenly, he felt fear. Incredibly fear, his heart pounding violently.

He had dreamed this dream a hundred times, the darkness always waiting for him.

Sometimes, he also heard the whispering of the dead.

 _You don’t belong here_ , they whispered.  _You are not one of us._

Now he knew why. He was no wolf, but a dragon. Or better said half a dragon.

Still, he felt that there was something down there, hidden in the darkness of the crypts. A secret that needed to be unlocked.

His breathing grew labored as he continued to climb down the steps, the world around him growing colder and colder.

He closed his eyes to forget about the pain, but when he opened them again he realized that he was chained, the clinking metal around his neck choking him.

In his ears he herd the roar of his brother.

He sounded angry. Oh, so very angry. He was longing for the taste of blood.

It scared Jon, his breath coming faster and faster, a bright flame lightening up the world around him…

“Jon,” a soft and familiar voice roused him from his blackness. “Jon.”

He knew it was Daenerys, her warm body brushing against his. She was looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and worry.

“Are you well?” she asked and touched his cheek. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare,” Jon explained and pondered for a moment whether he should tell her the truth. “Only a recurring dream. Sometimes, I am dreaming that I am Ghost and at other times I am dreaming of home or better said the crypts of Winterfell.”

“The crypts of Winterfell?” Daenerys asked, her eyebrows rising to the top of her head. She was naked, but the furs she had wrapped around her concealed her slender from.

Not that it mattered. He had seen all of her last night and had kissed every part of her body.

The thought made his cock harden, but there was also shame.

 _We shouldn’t have done this_ , he had told her last night, but he had broken his vow the very same night. They had done it a second and a third time, though his Aunt hadn’t complained.

On the contrary. She had been very eager.

And now he was lusting after again. Mayhaps Lady Stark had been right all along.

Bastards were lusty and wicked creatures.

 _You are no bastard_ , he reminded himself, but it was the touch of Daenerys’ lips on his cheek that made him forget about Lady Stark.

“The crypts of Winterfell are the resting place of the Stark family,” he whispered against her lips. “My siblings and I used to play there when we were children. As I said…it is not the first I dreamed of the crypts. My forebearers told me that I don’t belong here. Now I know why.”

“That is nonsense,” Daenerys’ countered, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You are half a Stark, are you not? Why would they hate you?”

Daenerys had a point, but there had to be a reason for these dreams.

“I don’t know,” he admitted and angled his head to look at the window, pale light falling through the shutters. “Mayhaps it was only a silly dream.”

Soon they would have to return to their assigned task: to prepare the city for the coming battle.

That thought scared him even more now, especially when he looked at Daenerys.

They would rape and murder her.

 _No, I won’t allow that to happen_ , he swore to himself.  _Never._

“Mayhaps was only the result of a restless mind,” she offered as a possible explanation and brushed his hair out of his face, her lips bruised from their ardent kissing. She had more signs of his mouth on her body. Around her neck and between her breasts.

She must have had a similar thought, for her hand had slipped beneath the bedding to touch him.

Lustful as he was, he closed his eyes and allowed the feelings of pleasure to overwhelm him. As always, Daenerys stopped at the hight of pleasure and graced him with a wicked smile.

“Your turn,” she said and spread her legs wide. He knew what she wanted and buried his head between her thighs.

If someone had told him that he would end up like this he would have laughed.

Her gasps of pleasure and her squirming movements told him that she was close.

He decided to repay her for her earlier actions.

He stopped abruptly and lifted his head to look at her.

He graced her with a smile and brushed the slickness from his mouth.

It made him long to bury himself inside her.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, her chest heaving with anticipation.

Her deep violet eyes were as black as the night as he moved between her legs, burying himself deep.

“Good,” she gasped, her head rolling backwards. Jon thrust deeper and crashed his mouth against hers, her legs spread wide. “Don’t stop…don’t hold back.”

Jon had been too lost to his desires to refuse, their mouths crashing together anew as she wrapped her legs around him while he continued to move at a quick pace.

“Faster…,” she whispered, no ordered him. Jon tried to oblige as best as possible, his own breathing labored and his mind clouded. He had bedded whores, but he was no bull. There was only so long he could endure this.

She shuddered beneath him, her fingers digging in his shoulder blades.

He closed his eyes, trying to forget about his own pleasure, but it was hard to focus when his insides were aflame and his release overwhelmed him.

Still buried inside her, he collapsed on top of her, his head buried between her pert breasts.

“It is close to dawn,” she remarked after his breathing had calmed down, her hand brushing through his sweaty hair. “I should return or my handmaids will worry.”

“Aye, you should,” he murmured, but she made no attempt to move, her legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “What will happen now?”

“We will play our roles,” she replied and caressed his face, forcing him to look at her. “And we have a battle to win.”

She had smiled when she said these words, but she had also looked sad.

Jon couldn’t help but to feel that she was hiding something from him…

**…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after Lena Headly basically confirmed that the did indeed cut out the miscarrige scene that was supposed to happen in the last ep of season 7, I am pretty convinced that none of what happened in season 8 was actually planned. If there was Cersei's miscarriage, the boatbaby was planned too and all these mad forshadowing actually had purpose. So this is my theory: The Dany goes Mad plotline was actually Cersei's plotline and the Jon kills the Mad Queen plotline was meant for Jaime, which also means: Dany will not go mad in the books nor will Jon kill her for going mad. If he kills her then for other reasons, but I doubt it. Honestly, I think the only thing we can deduce from the show is that Jon will at one point be King, that Sansa will make it back to Winterfell, that Arya will come back to Westeros, that Stannis will die at one point (I doubt it is against the Boltons) that Bran will be King of something (I still not buy that he will be King of the Seven Kingdoms...it makes no fucking sense no matter how often I try to justify it to myself!) and that that Dany will come to Westeros and fail in her endeavour to take the throne and that the Others will somehow be defeated.


	22. Surprises

**The Sun’s Son**

Quentyn couldn’t help  but to notice the signs of battle. Black scorched marks stained the buildings and most of the mansions they had passed by were occupied by women and weeping children.

Many of them must have fled here from Astapor, because they looked gaunt and exhausted, just as Quentyn and his companions. They had travelled for days and by the sixth day they had used up their food and several of their horses had perished.

Quentyn had almost wept when Daenerys Targaryens’ outriders had found them. At first, they had threatened them, but welcomed them after they had explained  their purpose.

Exhausted and drenched in sweat, Quentyn had arrived at Yunkai, but now after he had laid eyes on the massive pyramid looming in the distance, he was beginning to feel anxious.

“Come along, my friends,” the blue-haired sellsword named Daario waved his hand and graced them with a golden smile. He had made fast friends with Greenguts and Quentyn hoped that they could use this to their advantage. “The Queen is waiting for you.”

Quentyn managed only to nod in silence and sucked in a deep breath.

Daario guided them beyond a massive stone door, a handful of Unsullied following them as they went. Golden torches lined the walls and braziers flickered in the darkness of the corridors, blurring the colorful paintings that lined the walls of the Great Pyramid. The language was foreign to Quentyn, but he believed it to be Ghiscari, for everywhere he looked he saw the imagines of harpies, the sign of the masters that had once ruled over this city.

Deeper and deeper they were led into the pyramid. Numerous steps followed and more paintings full of harpies and naked humans, before they arrived at two wooden doors, carved with even more harpies and a golden whip.

Four stone-faced Unsullied pulled the door open as if their weight meant nothing to them.  As he swept his gaze through the hall of pink marble he noticed more Unsullied. All of them were armed with shields, helmets and spears. Their tips glinted like diamonds whenever the sunlight fell upon them.

Yet they were not the only warriors present. There were sun-kissed men garbed in leather and armed with winding arakhs, the weapons of the Dothraki. Their black eyes met his across the hall, watching him and his companions.

Quentyn tried his best to ignore them and followed Daario up the broad steps leading up to the wooden bank that been placed in the middle of the spacious chamber.

There, seated beneath a ray of sunlight, he found Princess Daenerys Targaryen.

“You stand before Daenerys Targaryen,” a young girl, seated on a cushion informed them and gave them a dozen of more titles that were nothing but a blur to Quentyn Martell’s ears, his heart pounding loudly, drowning out all sound around him.

Quentyn had seen many a pretty girl in his life, but the girl he saw before him was a different kind of beauty. Her finely-shaped face could have been carved by an artist. Her silver locks looked like beams of moonlight and her large eyes reminded him of amethysts.  Even her rather simply clothing didn’t dim her breathtaking beauty. She wore a simple red tunic, fastened with a leather belt, sandals and a crimson cloak wound over her shoulders. Her only jewels were the small bells fastened on her braid.

“This is Pretty Meris,” Daario introduced their assigned leader to his Queen. If Pretty Meris was actually pretty, Quentyn would have felt much more at ease, but nothing could be further from the truth. Pretty Meris was six feet tall and earless, with a slit nose, deep scars in both cheeks and had eyes as cold as ice.

Next came Hugh Hungerford, all long-faced and clad in faded finery. Webber was short and muscular, with spider tattoos littering his head and chest. Red-faced Orson Stone introduced himself as a knight and so did Lucifer Long. Will of the Woods, a boy of ten and six, eyed the Princess’ bosom even as he knelt.

Quentyn only hoped he and his companions would make a better appearance.

The Princess’s violet eyes had followed them all the way up the steps. Quentyn was relieved to see a hesitant smile curling on her pink lips.

It was then that he noticed the presence of an old and young men. The old man was garbed in polished plate, a snow-white cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He looked as if he was posing as a member of the Kingsguard.

The young man was garbed in black and greyish clothing, black trousers that were tucked into worn-out leather boots and a black cloak that was wound over his shoulder. The only colorful part of his clothing was the red fleck his cloak. At first, Quentyn couldn’t make out what it showed, but after he had stepped closer, he had realized to his astonishment that it was a three-headed dragon.

Quentyn was about to take in the young man’s face, but the Princess’ soft voice called him to attention.

“You may rise, my friends,” the Princess said, her smile intensifying. She had a pretty smile, like sunshine. It seemed his fears of marrying Aerys with tits was unfounded. “My brother Viserys told me that Sunspear stayed loyal to my father when the Usurper stole his throne. I thank you for coming. You must have faced many perils to reach me.”

“Many,” Drink replied with a smile. “We were six when we left, your Grace.”

Her smile faded when she heard this and her grip tightened on her red tunic.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she replied politely and eyed Greenguts. “You have a rather odd name.”

“A jape, your Grace,” Greenguts informed her promptly and bobbed his head. “From the ships. I was greensick the whole way from Volantis. That is where the name came from.”

Surprisingly, the Princess started to laugh, a pink flush creeping up her cheeks.

“I can imagine it, Ser. It is Ser, isn’t it?”

“Knighthood is easily claimed this far from Westeros,” the elderly man remarked, his blue eyes piercing into Greenguts. “Are you prepared to defend this boast with sword or lance?”

“I am,” Drink replied without hesitation. “Though I will not claim that any of us is equal to Ser Barristan the Bold. Forgive us, but we came before you under false names, your Grace.”

“The man beside me did the same,” the Princess remarked, her voice suddenly laced with suspicion. “Tell me your true names, then.”

“Gladly,” Drink replied and dipped his head. “I am Ser Gerris Drinkwater, your Grace. My sword is yours.”

Greenguts simply crossed his arms against his chest and grinned. “And my warhammer. I am called Ser Archibald Yronwood.”

“And you, Ser?” the girl asked Quentyn, who was still frozen in his spot, his feet suddenly weak like pudding.

“Your Grace,” he replied and lowered his head. “May I first present my gift?”

“If you wish,” the Princess replied and watched in silence as he retrieved the faded piece of parchment he had hidden in his boots.

“Give it to me,” the young man offered in a cordial tone and made his way down the steps towards Quentyn. He had a long face, framed by shoulder-length brown hair and unblinking black eyes. “I shall treat it with utmost care. I promise.”

“Jon has my trust,” the Princess assured him. Quentyn complied, handing him the parchment, who in turn handed it to the Princess.

The Princess read quietly while the long-faced young man was watching her intently.

“May we know what it says, your Grace?” asked the elderly man, who had turned out to be no other than Ser Barristan Selmy. Even in Dorne they had heard of his dismissal from the Kingsguard, but that he was here was a pleasant surprise.

Yet it was the Princess’ expression he was watching. His bride or so his father hoped, but there was no smile on her lips as she folded the parchment and looked at Ser Barristan.

“It is a secret pact,” the Princess explained then. “Made in Braavos when I was just a wee girl. Ser William signed for us, the man who spirited my mother and myself from Dragonstone before the Usurper’s men could reach us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as his witness. The allegiance is to be sealed by a marriage. In return for Dorne’s help my brother Viserys was supposed to make Prince Doran’s daughter his Queen.”

The elderly knight nodded his head agreement.

“If Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear like he had once smashed Pyke.”

“And that was probably the reason Prince Doran chose to keep this pact secret,” the Princess offered, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. “If my brother Viserys had known that he had a Dornish Princess waiting for him, he would have crossed to Sunspear as soon as he was old enough to wed.”

“And would have brought Robert’s warhammer upon himself,” Quentyn repeated Ser Barristan’s earlier words, finally finding his strength to speak. “My father was content to wait for the day that Prince Viserys found himself an army.”

The Princess looked surprised.

“Your father?”

“Prince Doran,” he offered and knelt. “I am Prince Quentyn Martell.”

The Princess eyes’ widened, but the young man’s face, who had stayed close to the Princess’ side, had turned as white as a slate.

“You came to marry me,” the Princess added and glimpsed briefly at the young man, who immediately backed away as if he had been touched by a flame, putting distance between them. “To get Dorne’s help I must seal this pact, isn’t that so?”

Quentyn didn’t like the tone in her voice. She sounded bitter.

“My father hoped you might find me acceptable,” he replied politely, trying to keep his composure. “Dorne has fifty thousand spears to offer, your Grace.”

“A generous offer,” the Princess replied and bit her lips, her violet eyes darting back to the young man, who was staring at Quentyn as if he wanted to say something. Then, she sucked in a deep breath and waved her hand at the young man, as if to introduce him. “But first you must be introduced to another relative of mine…my nephew…Jon Snow.”

Quentyn didn’t know what to say, the young man’s odd name echoing in his ears.

_That she had called him her nephew confused her only more._

It was still long and framed by plain brown hair.

It made no sense. Viserys had been a child when he had been exiled and this young man was around Quentyn’s age.

“Are you jesting with me, your Grace?” he asked in an unsure tone and shifted his attention to the young man. “Aren’t you a bit too old to be Prince Viserys’ son?”

The young man’s face turned even grimmer, his dark eyes narrowed and his right fist clenched.

“I am not Prince Viserys’ son,” he explained and lowered his head in greeting. “My father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen…,” he continued. Then, stopped and swallowed hard, his fist opening and closing again in the same breath. “And Lady Lyanna Stark.”

The young man’s answer was met with deadly silence.

Quentyn didn’t know what to say, for the answer made no sense.

He knew about Prince Rhaegar’s entanglement with Lady Lyanna Stark, but had never heard of a child being born from their unholy union.

“Wasn’t the Stark girl raped?” Drink asked, breaking the silence. Quentyn felt the urge to throttle him when he saw the Princess’ shocked face.

“She was not raped!” the young snapped back as quickly as a whip. There was something wolfish about the way he brushed his hand over the pommel of his word. It was clearly a gesture of threat. “My mother wasn’t raped. It was a lie made up by my Uncle Eddard Stark to hide the truth. My mother loved my father and they were wed in the Faith of the Old Gods, the gods of my people. I was born a few moons after the sack of King’s Landing…in a tower in Dorne.”

“It is known,” Greenguts repeated. “Lyanna Stark was kept in a tower in Dorne and died.”

“Aye,” the young man named Jon Snow confirmed, his voice trembling with emotions. “She died there…she bled to death. Afterwards, my Uncle took me to Winterfell to raise me as his bastard son…Jon Snow.”

Quentyn had listened in silence, his head thrumming with pain from all these lies.

It couldn’t be true.

It was utter madness.

“You said Prince Rhaegar married your mother, boy,” Drink repeated mockingly, his hand brushing over his sword. “He was already wed. Whatever vow your mother gave to Prince Rhaegar means nothing. You are still a bastard.”

“My forebearers took second wives before,” the Princess Daenerys offered in obvious displeasure “And do not call him boy. His name is Jon Snow.”

It was easy to see that she held liking for this liar. Mayhaps he was even more than that. He was a comely young man and her age.

Yes. That was the only possible explanation. This young man must have been able to fool the Princess.

It wasn’t impossible. It would not be hard to make up such a tale…

“It is fine,” the young man assured the Princess and searched Quentyn’s face. “I do not care if you believe me, but it is true. I am Prince Rhaegar’s son and I am aware what your father and family must think of this. I do not care whether my mother’ vows are considered false or not. I am here for the same reason as you…I want to help my Aunt to retake the throne. Surely, that is common ground we could build on?”

Quentyn saw that Drink was about to open his mouth and waved his hand at him.

He was done playing Froggy the squire. He had to act a Prince, even if he felt like a foolish boy.

And the best way was to play along until he understood what game was being played here.

Thus, he met the Princess’ gaze and forced a smile over his lips.

“I did not come here for Lyanna Stark’s son. I came to find you…and my offer still stands.”

The Princess nodded her head and exchanged another quiet look with Jon Snow, before answering.

“I shall think about your words, my Prince,” she replied. “But first I must win the next battle. Until then, you are my guests. I would like to hear more about Dorne and I think  _my nephew_  shares this feeling.”

…


	23. Battle Plans

**Daenerys**

The horizon was flecked with orange and red streaks, blurring together like a strange painting. The sun itself was fat and looked like a freshly boiled egg.

Even so, the air was chilly and an even chillier appearance made the enemy, who had erected their camp on the slanting sandstone ridge spreading south from the city.

Their approach had been shadowed by the thick birchwood forest they had crossed, but the enemy was not far and had yet to move from its position.

_They are waiting for us to attack_. So much Jon, Ser Barristan, Daario and Greyworm had agreed on but they had yet to decide what to do about it.

While they had prepared Yunkai for a potential siege, they had also agreed that avoiding such a siege would be even better. Dany had left enough Unsullied in Meereen to defend the city, but she didn’t like the idea of staying away for too long. New Ghis could easily transport more legions by ship to Meereen.

“Looks like Ser Froggy told us the truth. There are two Ghiscari legions waiting for us, which means around eight to ten-thousand men,” Daario estimated, his gaze narrowed against the bright sunlight. “But we shouldn’t forget about the two sellsword companies…the Company of the Cat and the Windblown.”

“Prince Quentyn told us that half a legion perished from the plague and that a second legion lost a third of their men. These two legions over there are supposedly a mixture of fresh and old troops and some of them are still recovering from the plague. The sellswords supposedly suffered a similar fate…Only the Windblown were relatively unaffected by the trap we laid out for them. It seems the Tattered Prince saw through it.”

Daario laughed. “The old man has a sharp mind. The Bloodbeard always liked mocking him. Well, in the end it was the old man who survived.”

“So much is true,” Ser Barristan agreed and stroked his snow-white beard. “But that doesn’t mean this old man can be trusted. He is still a sellsword.”

“The Tattered Prince has been toiling for thirty years to ret-take Pentos. It is his heart’s desire. If Pentos won’t convince him to come over then nothing will. The fact, that he sent his men to us also tells me that he is not confident in his allies’ victory.”

“True, but they could also be spies,” Jon countered, his dark gaze darting to the river that spread beyond the ridge. “I also think a cautious man like the Tattered Prince won’t change sides until he sees that the battle is “decided” in our favor. That is why I think we shouldn’t count on his support when we decide on our battle plans.”

Dany swallowed hard and searched Jon’s face. He had kept his distance since their meeting with the Dornish envoy, but that was no surprise to her. ‘Elia Martell’ was a difficult topic for Jon and for her as well.

Despite Rhaegar’s actions, Dany couldn’t bring herself to hate her brother. What he had done was reckless, but then she wasn’t much better.

Her younger self would have readily accepted Quentyn Martell’s offer, but now she felt conflicted.

It weren’t just her affections for Jon that held her back, but also the fact that she couldn’t bear children.

Sure, she could hide the truth. But for how long? No, she wouldn’t want to live like that.

_First we have to win this battle_ , she reminded herself and graced Jon with a warm smile. One step after another.

“Then, we should return to Yunkai to decide on our battle plans,” Dany offered when Jon didn’t reply.

Jon’s serious face softened a little and for the blink of a moment she got a brief glimpse at the young man that had eagerly shared her bed.

“Aye, we shouldn’t waste more time,” Jon agreed and kicked his feet in the sides of his horse. “Better today than on the morrow.”

Dany and the others followed, the Unsullied flanking them.

“They outnumber us one to two,” Ser Barristan summed up their dilemma after they had assembled to speak about their battle plans. “And they have high ground, though they would have to assemble their troops on the flat ground beneath the ridge if they wanted to engage us in battle.”

 “If…if…if,” Daario repeated in amusement. “They don’t make the impression that they are going to attack us soon. Well, eventually their rations will start dwindling and then they will be forced to leave their hiding place.”

“That could take days or weeks,” Dany added disapprovingly. “We have already wasted more than two weeks. I can’t leave Meereen undefended. We need to lure them from the hill and defeat them.”

“That won’t be hard,” Jon replied and eyed the map spread over the oval table. They had already placed four wooden figurines on the table which were meant to represent the enemy. “I am sure they are eager to fight us. They are just waiting for us to attack and that is why I think we should give them what they want.”

“That is obvious, but would be a very bold move,” Daario remarked with a hint of mockery. “They lost men, but at the end of the day they still have more men than us. How many men did the Company of the Cat lose again?”

“Prince Quentyn estimates that about two third of the Company of the Cat perished from the plague,” Dany replied.

“That means that the Company of the Cat and the Windblown must amount to roughly three-thousand cavalry men while we have barely one thousand. That means we are in danger of being outflanked,” Ben Plumm added.

“That depends entirely on how they will arrange their troops,” Jon countered and shifted his attention to Ser Barristan, who had listened to their exchange in silence. “What do you think, Ser Barristan? How would you fight us if you were the enemy?”

Barristan frowned and leaned over the map, pondering Jon’s question, before giving his thoughts on the matter.

“I would use the river to protect my right flank and place all my cavalry on the left flank. My superior numbers would allow me to go deep and pin down the enemy. Once this is achieved, I would bring in my cavalry and attack the enemy’s weaker flank,” Ser Barristan trailed off, his blue eyes flickering from Dany to Jon.

“Exactly,” Jon agreed and furrowed his brow as he picked up the wooden figurines that were meant to represent their own troops. He assembled three wooden figurines next to each other and another, the one that looked like a horse, at their right flank.  “And I think that is why we should encourage such an attack. By luring the enemy to attack our cavalry they would bare their left flank to us.”

“To attack their flanks would be easier than to break through the center,” Greyworm agreed, his gaze fixed on the wooden figurines.

“That sounds good in theory,” Daario remarked in displeasure. “But it is more likely that the enemy will simply overwhelm our cavalry and outflank us!”

“I know, but there is something we could do,” Jon replied calmly and placed another figurine close to the cavalry. “Sadly, it would mean to thin our lines further…we could form a smaller fourth line and hide it behind our cavalry. The whirled-up dust should hide our true intentions well enough and the Unsullied’s spears should make quick work of the enemy’s cavalry.”

“I like the idea,” Dany agreed hesitatingly and shifted her attention to Greyworm. “What do you think, Greyworm? Do you think you we can afford thinning your lines further?”

“The Unsullied will stand strong, your Grace,” Greyworm promised without hesitation. “Forming a fourth line should be possible and the Unsullied’s spears shall bring disorder to the enemy’s cavalry.”

“Are you sure?” she asked again and searched Greyworm’s ever unreadable face. “I do not wish to sacrifice your men unnecessarily.” 

She believed to see a flicker of emotion in Greyworm’s dark eyes. Was it gratefulness or fear, she couldn’t say.

“The Unsullied will stand strong, your Grace,” Greyworm promised again and dipped his head as if to emphasize his promise.

“It is a nice idea,” Daario granted in obvious annoyance and exchanged a brief glance with Ben Plumm. “I guess me and Ben Plumm will be the bait?”

“Only one of you,” Ser Barristan added. “I think you forgot that someone needs to man the city walls.”

“Ben Plumm can do that…” Daario began, but Dany cut him off.

“You heard right. Ben Plumm will lead the cavalry. You will stay behind and command the freedmen manning the city walls…an important task,” Dany explained, but hid her true reasons. Ben Plumm and Daario were both sellswords, but she had always found Ben Plumm more trustworthy, especially after she had spurned Daario’s attentions. She didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

“You want me to hide away like a coward?” Daario asked in shock. He looked like a child that had been deprived of his favorite toy.

“Someone has to do it,” Dany insisted. “And I am sure Ben Plumm will take good care of your men.”

“I shall do that,” Ben Plumm promised and graced Daario with an assuring smile. “Do not fret, Daario. It is me who is soon going to piss himself while you can watch us from the city walls.”

“You shall not be alone,” Greyworm added. “The fourth line will be there to protect you. I do not think her Grace wants to sacrifice your men.”

“Greyworm speaks true. I shall accompany our men to battle,” Dany assured Ben Plumm. “I shall not hide behind city walls.”

Jon’s gaze widened in displeasure and his lips changed to a thin line.

Yet he didn’t speak out against her decision.

“I understand and I shall stay beside you,” he assured her instead.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan interrupted, seeking her gaze across the table. “I must ask you…,” he began, but Dany cut him off.

“I shall not hide behind city walls. We win or die together.”

“We will win or die together,” Jon repeated and met her gaze, a ghost of a smile curling on his pale lips.

Jon’s words gave her a surge of confidence .

“Then, we should prepare for battle.”

The next hours were spent on who to deploy their troops and other details. She nodded her head and asked her questions, but in the end realized that she had to trust them with this.

And yet she couldn’t help but to feel a hint of resentment. She was no fighter like Jon, Ser Barristan, Greyworm or Daario, but if she had control over Drogon she could simply mount him and frighten the slavers away. Sadly, Drogon hadn’t been seen since she had chained Viserion and Rhaegal.

_He must hate me for what I did to his brothers_ , she realized and pulled her feet to her chest. The water in her wooden basin was lukewarm and Irri, who had been attending to her, had fallen asleep next to the warm brazier. She could have called for Jhiqui and Missandei, but she didn’t want to disturb their peace either.

Quietly, she crawled out of the bath and retrieved her tunic and belt. Then, she pulled the woolen garment over her head and fastened it with her belt, before making her way over to Irri.

Gently, she touched her shoulder and whispered into her ear.

“Irri, wake up!”

The girl’s head snapped up immediately, her dark eyes wide in shock.

“Forgive me…,” she was about to apologize, but Dany grasped her shoulders and silenced him with a shake of her head.

“No need, my friend,” she assured her and kissed her cheek. “You must be tired. Leave me now.”

“As you wish,” Irri replied with a smile and left Dany to her own thoughts.

Not knowing what to do with herself, she sat down and started to brush her hair. After she had left Qarth it hadn’t been longer than her small finger. Irri had bemoaned the loss of Dany’s silver locks, but Dany herself found the long hair more a bother than a blessing unless it was tightly braided.

Truly, it was silly to think about her hair when they could all be dead on the morrow. She had considered calling for Jon, but then she was sure he would refuse such an offer to keep up appearances.

_My nephew can be an honorable fool_ , she thought with annoyance after she had arranged her hair into a simple braid. It wasn’t as proper as Missandei or Jhiqui would have done it, but it was better than to wake up with her hair in complete disarray.

That was another silly thought, she realized as she took a glance in the small looking glass that had been a gift from Magister Illyrio.

She froze in surprise when she noticed someone’s presence, but relaxed when she realized that it was Jon.

“Irri assured me you are alone,” he explained to her, a slight blush creeping up his pale cheeks. “Nobody saw me.”

Dany furrowed her brows and felt the urge to chide him, but then she decided against it. The fact that he came on his own accord meant much more to her than words could say.

“I don’t care about that,” she assured him as she drew closer, loosening her belt. “Especially not when we could die on the morrow.”

“We won’t die,” Jon replied without hesitation. “The enemy has more men, but many of them are sick.”

“You didn’t sound as confident when we were planning for the coming battle,” Dany remarked with a smile and discarded her belt.

“It is always better to plan for the worst and hope for the best,” he explained with a smile, his dark gaze darting to her lips.

Dany chuckled and grasped his hand, placing it on her chest.

His expression was serious and unreadable.

“Is that wise?” he asked, his voice strained and distant to her ears. Yet she could see how blown his eyes were. He wanted her.

Smiling, she leaned forward and touched his cheek.

“Prince Quentyn’s offer is generous, but I have no intention to simply go along with his demands. I understand why his father kept the pact hidden, but the Martells didn’t lift a single finger to help me and my brother after Ser William’s unfortunate death. They could have at least helped us through a middleman. My impression is that Prince Doran Martell is not doing this out of loyalty for my family, but to satisfy his own ambitions.”

“That is so,” Jon agreed and touched her hand. “But all high lords seek to satisfy their ambitions. I doubt Prince Doran Martell is worse than these other lords. And while Dorne may not be as powerful as the other kingdoms, it offers one advantage…it is hard to conqueror. Dorne would provide you with a good landing place for your invasion. From Dorne could easily move on into the Stormlands and then to King’s Landing. Taking the capital is the first thing you must do.”

What Jon had told her made sense, but she didn’t want to depend on the Dornish. She wanted to stand on her own two feet.

“Viserys was so desperate that he believed every lie spilling from Magister Illyrio’s lips. He gave me to Khal Drogo before making sure that he would keep his bargain,” she explained and forced him to look at her. “I shan’t make the same mistake. I will not agree to any bargains until I have placed my feet on Westerosi soil.”

 “That makes sense,” Jon added and leaned closer, but  pulled away suddenly when she didn’t move. He looked torn, his hand gently brushing over her shoulder, making her shudder.

His answer didn’t satisfy her, but then couldn’t marry him either. She was barren and Jon the only one who could continue the Targaryen line.

She should tell him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so.

It was selfish, but she didn’t want to think about the future. At least not now when they could die on the morrow.

Once more she wanted to know his embrace.

Thus, she brushed her doubts away and leaned closer to place a soft kiss on his lips.

“Do you want me to marry him?” she asked after she had pulled away, searching his face.

Jon looked as if someone had slapped him.

“Gods no!” Jon snapped back, his features changing into the wolfish expression it always took when he was angry. “Why would you even think that? I didn’t want to appear too forward…,” he continued, but  Dany silenced him with a kiss.

Jon didn’t hesitate to return her kiss, pushing apart her lips and pulling on her tunic.

“You are suddenly in such a hurry…,” she remarked after she had pulled her tunic over her head, leaving her completely bare.

“That’s because I don’t want to waste any time,” he returned and was upon her again, his lips tasting hers greedily, leaving barely space to move.

Eventually, she managed to break way and slipped her hand beneath his tunic to work the laces of his breeches. Once she was done, he grabbed her and lifted her to straddle his waist. Dany though he might dump her on the rug or her bed of cushions, but instead he bushed her against the wall, kissing and touching her wherever his hands could reach.

He took her like that, in a frenzy of desire he hadn’t shown before, marking her neck as he was losing himself inside her.

Not that Dany minded. It was what she had craved, a distraction from her restless mind.

…


	24. Lies

**Robb**

Robb felt the sweat clinging to his body as he moved across the narrow path leading through the swampy landscape of the Neck. These were the lands of the crannogmen, people of slender build which made it easier for them to move through these small paths covered with thick foliage and infested with swarms of flies.

Lord Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch, had sent them a score of men to lead them through the wilderness. Robb himself had chosen roughly a few hundred men to accompany him on this perilous path to circumvent Moat Cailin and to drive out the Ironborn that still occupied the castle.

For half a day, they had wandered through the wilderness, their boots sinking deep into the wet ground no matter where they went. At times, Robb had felt the urge to turn around, but their guide’s encouragement had eased his fears.

 _Moat Cailin is not far, my Lord. Just a bit of patience and we will be there._

That had been hours ago and by now it must be late in the evening, though that was hard to say. The sky was barely visible through the thick tree crowns.

“We are almost there, my Lord,” the leader of the crannogmen told him for the third time in the last hour and pointed ahead, stopping the column of men in their tracks.

“Are you sure?” Galbert Glover inquired. Not far from him loomed Dacey Mormont, Robin Flint and the Smalljon Umber, all of them members of his Wolfsguard. Greywind or so he believed to sense, must also be close. He had dreamed of him tonight and had seen him kill a bear. He had also woken with the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Aye, I am sure,” their guide confirmed and shifted his attention to Robb. He was a slender man with a mob of black hair and bright green eyes. He was a distant relative of Lord Reed or so the man had told him not long ago. “But we should move slow and carefully.”

“Aye, let’s be careful,” Robb agreed and drew closer. To move through the thick foliage he had to adapt a crouching position, but now that it was growing sparser he could straighten himself.

Relief washed over him when the ruins of Moat Cailin became visible through the soft mist that concealed the ancient ruins.

“Well done,” Robb thanked their guide and turned back to Lady Dacey Mormont. Robb had personally tasked her with caring for their ravens after the Lady had told him that her Grand-Uncle had shown her how to care for these kinds of birds when she was a young child. “It is time to send out the ravens. Our men are waiting for the sign.”

These men consisted mostly of Robb’s host that had accompanied him when he had ridden south to save his Lord Father’s life. Only the host under the command of Roose Bolton that Robb had sent to secure Harrenhall had yet to join them.

“I agree, my Lord,” their guide said approvingly. “The fog should serve us well and my people have been pestering the Ironborn with constant attacks, but they still outnumber us.”

“Aye,” Robb said and nodded his head in understanding. “But according to Lord Manderly, Victarion has taken the brunt of the Ironborn forces with him when he left Moat Cailin. The rumors also say that Balon Greyjoy died.”

“Good for the Ironborn,” the Smalljon mocked, his voice laced with bitterness. “But bad for us. Now you won’t be able to kill Balon Greyjoy yourself, my Lord.”

“I certainly won't grieve for Balon Greyjoy’s death,” Robb countered coldly. “But Bran and Rickon were killed by Theon’s hands, a man I treated like my brother. This isn’t about the House Stark and House Greyjoy. This is much more personal. It’s Theon’s head I desire. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“And to retake the North,” Robb added when the Smalljon had stared back at him in silence. “We shall butcher every single Ironborn remaining in the North, but I have no intention to start another war with the new Lord of the Iron Islands. I have killed enough and I want to go home.”

“We understand,” Lady Dacey added with an assuring smile and called her men to her side. He was carrying the cage with the ravens. “And the ravens are ready.”

Robb returned her smile and nodded his head in agreement. The message was two words long, but it took several tries until the bird calmed down enough to fasten the scroll around its feet.

The purpose for the ravens was simple. They were meant to inform the army located south to begin their attack up the causeway leaving Robbs small group unimpeded to attack the Ironbron from the rear.

The hardest part came next. The wait for the battle.

They hid away in the thick foliage, watching the ruins in the distance, though that was harder than expected.

The closer dusk came the thicker the fog grew. It was both an advantage and a disadvantage. It would make it hard to see further than an arm-length, but would also make easier to conceal their movement.

Their only source of light were the stars glinting at the distant horizon and the lights glimmering in the bent and broken towers.

The battle was announced by the sound of arrows.

Robb didn’t hesitate to free his blade and followed after their brave guides.

His pounding heart was drowning out all other sounds and his senses heightened even more as he freed himself from the embrace of the thick foliage.

Leaving the swamp behind him felt freeing and the familiar sight of Moat Cailin’s ruins was a welcome sight.

Great blocks of black basalt lay scattered and half-sunken into the ground, the three remaining towers cast in thick mist.  They were bent like the back of an old hag and looked as if they would fall apart any moment.

And yet, Robb knew better. He had once resided in one of these towers. They had endured for hundreds of years and even a handful of Ironborn wouldn’t change that fact.

The archers hiding in these towers were an even greater danger to Robb’s host. They were the ones that needed to die first.

“After me!” Robb whispered and lifted his blade. “We must secure the towers.”

His men didn’t need more encouragement, but they approached as they had planned. Carefully and hidden by the shadows.

That the enemy was seemingly occupied with Robb’s host helped. While Robb and his men were moving towards them from behind the Ironborn were unleashing one arrow after another.

The first men that found his end by Robb’s hands never saw him coming. He had barely turned his head, before Robb had buried his blade in his stomach, twisting it free a heartbeat later to move on.

The next man proved a more formidable enemy. He was armed with a mighty ax that would have surely managed to cleave off Robb’s arm hadn’t the Greatjon split the man’s shoulder with his mighty sword.

Robb would have thanked him, but the battle was raging and he had to focus on killing his enemy.

He killed another man, half a boy going by his clean-shaven face. He gave a quiet choke as Robb cut his throat, his scythe clattering as it hit the ground.

This one had been the last men that died defending the Gatehouse Tower, but two more towers were waiting for them to be taken.

By the time they were done, Robb’s chain mail and cloak were drenched with blood and both his feet and arm ached from the battle and the exhausting march through the swamp.

Robb knew he should feel happy, but he felt nothing but emptiness when his men scaled the walls and exchanged the golden kraken of House Greyjoy with the snarling direwolf of House Stark.

He was stunned by this as he had hoped that killing Ironborn would help to ease the pain in his heart.

The realization that came afterwards was far more devastating. Not even killing Theon Greyjoy would bring his brothers back.

No, the bitter truth was: Bran and Rickon were lost to him forever.

 _Jon is the last brother left to me_ , he realized again as he oiled Ice. Lord Tywin had returned the blade to him after he had bent the knee, but even in this battle Robb had used his own sword, a much lighter blade. And while Ice was too heavy for him to use it in battle, he would use it when delivering justice.

 _Theon will die by it_ , he decided right there and watched his men assemble around the cookfires scattered around the ruins of Moat Cailin. There was  also drinking and music to be heard.

Not that Robb blamed his men. Most of them were happy to return home to their families, but Robb couldn’t share their happiness.

More than half his family was lost to him. Again his restless mind returned to his loss.

His father was exiled to the Wall, Sansa was most likely dead, Arya and his mother hated him, Bran and Rickon were dead as well and Jon…he didn’t even know where Jon went.

 _I need to find Jon_ , Robb knew and rolled to the side, pulling the furs over his shoulders. The cheers of his Wolfsguard could be heard outside of his tent and Olyvar’s shadow was dancing in the curling flames. _He is the last brother left to me._

Yet, that was easier said than done. Jon was an oathbreaker and his Lords might not like it if he made an exception for his brother…

It was the howl of a wolf that woke him from his slumber.

Robb didn’t need to hear more than that to free himself from his furs and to step out of his tent.

Another howl followed, before he laid eyes on his loyal beast, Greywind.

His massive wolf strutted through the camp as if he was a King, though most men, apart from the guards, were asleep.

“Where have you been?” Robb asked his loyal companion as he drew closer to scratch his ears. “I had need of you during the battle?”

When he saw the blood around Greywind’s mouth he knew what his loyal beast had been doing. It seemed his dream became reality.

“Ah, I see,” Robb remarked with a smile and patted Greyworm’s head. “You were hunting, weren’t you, my boy?”

His wolf gave a whine and curled beside the cookfire.

Robb laughed and returned to his tent to dress himself, before breaking his fast in company of his men.

They were speaking about how they should best move their host over the causeway, but were interrupted by the arrival of a surprising visitor.

Robb recognized the banner. It was no other than Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watcher, who arrived in company of a good hundred crannogmen.

All of them were glad in green cloaks and armed with nets and frog spears.

Lord Howland Reed was leading them, seated on a small hairy horse that reminded Robb of a pony.

“Lord Stark,” the small man greeted him with a sad smile after he had climbed from his saddle. He didn’t kneel, but bowed his head lower than expected, his right hand crossed over his chest. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. I am Lord Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch.”

Like most crannogmen, Lord Howland Reed was a man of slender build. His face was long and his eyes were large and green like freshly-cut grass.

“On the contrary,” Robb replied and graced the smaller man with an honest smile. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Reed. My father told me much about you and I owe my victory to your capable guides.”

Then, Robb shifted his attention to the woman that had ridden behind him. She had was small in build, but much taller than the average crannogman.  Her skin was also darker and her eyes were bright blue.

“Is this your Lady?” Robb asked in surprise that Lord Reed had brought his wife here.

“I am Lady Jyana Reed,” the Lady confirmed with a smile and lowered her head in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Reed,” Robb replied and graced Lord Reed with another smile. “But why did you come here in such a haste, my Lord? Are you here to warn us?”

“No,” Lord Reed replied, a wry smile curling on his lips. “My reasons for coming here are twofold. Firstly, I came to inquire about my children. I haven’t heard anything from them since the sacking of Winterfell. Secondly, I came to speak about your brother…Jon Snow, though this matter should be discussed in private.”

Robb froze. He had completely forgotten about the Reed children.

“Sadly, we haven’t heard anything about your children, my Lord,” Robb told him and waved his hand at the nearby tent. “But I am sure we will soon know more. Regarding Jon…Would you care to break your fast with me? Your wife may join us as well. You must be famished.”

“That would please me,” Lord Reed replied cordially, but there was something sad and distant about him.

 _It must be because of his children_ , Robb believed as led him into the tent.

Not long after, Olyvar appeared and brought them dark bread, cheese and roasted bacon. They also drank ale while Lady Reed received a cup of milk.

 _I carry another babe, my Lord_ , she informed him after she had refused the ale.

“What do you wish to tell me about Jon?” Robb asked and had a hard time keeping his feelings in check. “Did you see him? Did he seek you out?”

“No,” Lord Reed explained and left his food untouched. “I wish it were so, but I think I know why the boy deserted from the Night’s Watch. I feel I must tell you about it…to prevent you from doing something you might regret.”

Robb was confused by Lord Reed’s words, desperate to get answers.

“Let me put it this way, Lord Reed,” Robb replied and took a bite from the bread. “I am surprised that you believe to know about his reasons for leaving the Night’s Watch. I mean…I myself have a hard time making sense of his actions and I have known Jon all my life. He joined voluntarily. I do not understand why he would dishonor himself.”

Lord Reed nodded his head and sucked in a deep breath.

“He must have found out the truth,” Lord Reed said after he had exhaled deeply. “And I think I know who told him.”

“Truth?” Robb asked in confusion. “What truth are you referring to?”

“That Jon Snow is not your father’s son,” Lord Reed replied plainly and searched Robb’s gaze in silence.

Robb read guilt in his bright green eyes. It must have cost him much to say this, which made it hard to out-rightly refuse what he had just told him.

Yet, it made no sense. Jon was not his father’s blood? That was utter madness.

Robb couldn’t help but to shake his head in disbelief.

“Forgive me, Lord Reed, but that is impossible…Why would my father lie about Jon’s parentage? And whose’ son is he then? He looks more like a Stark than me.”

“That is because he is undeniably of Stark blood…through his mother, your Aunt Lyanna.”

The answer felt like a slap to the face.

“My Aunt…,” Robb repeated, his mind a storm of confusion as he tried to make sense of Lord Reed’s words. “But that means…,” he trailed off, realizing what Lord Read had implied.

His Aunt had been taken by Rhaegar Targaryen. It was the only possible explanation.

“That Jon Snow is in truth the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Lord Reed finished for him and left the implications looming like an executioner’s blade ready to fall down on them any moment.

“He raped her,” Robb said in utter shock. It was the first thing that came to his mind. “Gods be good…and Jon is his son.”

“Prince Rhaegar never harmed Princess Lyanna, Lord Stark,” Lady Jyanna Reed added softly, her grip tightening on Lord Reed’s shoulder. “He was a kind and courteous man. I would know…I served as one of your Aunt’s maids that aided her in birthing the little Prince.”

Robb felt as if someone had cracked his head with a hammer, leaving his thoughts even more scattered and confused.

“You called my brother a Prince,” he addressed Lady Reed. “And my Aunt a Princess. Why?”

He had his suspicions, but he wanted to hear the truth from their lips.

“The Prince…he told us to call her ‘Princess’, because he took her as his second wife. As for your Aunt, we became friends. And her little Prince…Jon I liked to sing for him while we were travelling back to Starfall.  It was all that I could do to help…I couldn’t feed him like Wylla.”

“Wylla,” Robb repeated, the name sparking a distant memory. He had heard his father mention such a name to his mother. “What happened to her?”

“She returned to Starfall after your Father had found another nursemaid for the Little Prince and sent him to Riverrun,” Lady Reed explained and smiled at her husband. ”I myself left for Greywater Watch. I was carrying our first child…our Meera.”

“But Prince Rhaegar was already wed and my Aunt was betrothed to Robert Baratheon,” Robb countered, trying to make sense of this madness. “I do not understand…this goes against everything what I was told.”

“It was a lie Robert Baratheon told himself and Ned encouraged to hide what really happened. The truth is, Lyanna held not much love for Robert Baratheon, but for Prince Rhaegar she did…so much that she decided to spurn her betrothal and became his second wife,” Lord Reed explained and sucked in a deep breath. Exhaling deeply, he forced the next words over his lips. “That is at least what she told us after she recovered from the birthing fever.”

Robb couldn’t believe his ears, his mouth opening and closing in silence.

“Are you trying to say that my Aunt didn’t die?”

“Exactly,” Lord Reed confirmed, his voice growing strangely sentimental. “Lyanna is not dead…the bones in the crypts belong to a servant girl from Castle Starfall that had perished from a fever. I do not know where she is, but I am sure she is still alive. I also believe that it is very likely that she sought out Jon Snow and told him the truth.”

“This is utter madness,” Robb muttered and felt suddenly very sick. His father had lied to them all these years. And Jon…he couldn’t even imagine the anger he must have felt. “Utter madness.”

“So much is true,” Lord Reed agreed sadly. “Imagine how your father felt when he found out the truth. He was so convinced that Lyanna had been raped and so was Robert Baratheon. It was partly my fault, I should have told them about my suspicions.”

Robb’s head snapped up in an instant, anger stirring inside his stomach.

“Are you implying that you knew that my Aunt wasn’t abducted?”

“I didn’t know,” Lord Reed returned hesitatingly. “But your Aunt Lyanna wasn’t like the average maid. She and your Uncle Benjen beat up three squires that were hurting me and later she disguised herself as the Knight of the Laughing Tree to take revenge against these squires by challenging their lords during the tilt. She won each match…not an easy feat. Truly, I should have known better than that.”

“My Aunt is alive,” Robb repeated again, hoping that it would help to make sense of this new reality. “What happened to her and why did she leave Jon?”

“The same reason she ran away with Prince Rhaegar,” Lord Reed replied. “Ned wanted her to wed Robert. He meant well, but he should have known better than that to pressure her into such a match after what happened to her. Yet his worst mistake was to take the boy away from her…,” Lord Reed trailed off and averted his gaze.

“Wait!” Robb called out, unable to hide his shock. “Are you trying to imply that my father took Jon away from her?”

“He did,” Lord Reed confirmed with a deep sigh. “You must understand…Ned feared Lyanna would try do something reckless and endanger the boy. ‘To protect the boy I must take the boy away from her’ he justified his actions to me on the day he sent the boy to Riverrun. That was several weeks before Lyanna woke from her slumber.  I think you can imagine her rage when she found out. She demanded her child back, but Ned refused. Truly, at times Ned could be even more stubborn than Lyanna. Ned probably believed Robert would forget his hatred for the Targaryens if he got his bride back…Ned is my friend, but he was always blind when it came to Robert Baratheon. I know this might sound like treason, but I do not think Robert truly loved Lyanna as much as he claimed. The idealized picture he had of her was all in his imagination and I think Lyanna knew this. ‘The moment he sees my true self he will surely come to hate me’ she had told me on the last day of the tourney. Ned didn’t understand this…he loved Robert too much. In the end, Ned told her plain and simple that she wouldn’t see her boy again unless she did her duty. Well, that didn’t end well as you can imagine. I am actually surprised she didn’t return sooner, but then perhaps she was too afraid for her boy’s safety. Ned always made sure to keep the boy in Winterfell where everyone would be able to recognize Lyanna. He even refused all of my offers to foster the boy in Greywater Watch. I suppose he didn’t fully trust me. He must have known how fond I was of Lyanna.”

Robb had listened in silence, anger and confusion quarreling for dominance.

Yet he wanted to hear all of it. Only then would he be able to move forward.

“I can only imagine,” Robb asked and broke the silence that had settled over them.  “And what happened afterwards?”

“I don’t know the details,” Lord Reed explained. “But I think Lady Ashara helped Lyanna to escape from Starfall. Ned pleaded with her to tell him his sister’s whereabouts, but she refused him rather coldly. I suppose she did it out of spite.”

“My father killed her brother,” Robb recalled, an idea blooming in his mind. “What happened to Lady Ashara?”

“I killed Ser Arthur Dayne,” Lord Reed replied, his voice laced with guilt. “I stabbed him in the back to save your father’s life. As for Lady Ashara…she threw herself into the sea. Well, not that it matters anymore. Important is that you are aware of the truth should Jon decide to come back.”

“Jon is still a deserter,” Robb countered in frustration. This was all too much for him. “He broke his vow. My lords will expect me to kill or at least punish him. That is another truth.”

“What you say is true, Lord Stark,” Lord Reed returned quietly. “But your father also pledged to support Robert, but in the end he lied to him all these years. Love is stronger than duty. Tell me, do you think I fought for King Robert’s crown? No, nothing could be further from the truth. I fought for Lyanna, my friend and a girl I cherished, for defending my honor when she had no reason to do so. I was shocked when I found out the truth, but that doesn’t change my feelings of loyalty towards her and her son. Jon Snow also deserves your forgiveness. He was lied to his entire life.  And most importantly, he is your blood. Consider this when you see him again, Lord Stark.”

Howland Reed was right. Robb had known Jon all his life and knew how much he had yearned to know about his mother…

He understood his father’s fears, but he shouldn’t have left Jon in the dark.

“I don’t know what I will do,” Robb told Lord Reed. “But I could never kill  _my_   _brother_. So much I know.”

…


	25. The Battle for Yunkai

**Jon**

Dawn had come and gone, before they had managed to arrange their troops across the flat plain that spread beneath the ridge across the battlefield.

The enemy hadn’t been idle. Not long their own skirmishers had crashed with the enemy while the Ghiscari legions had taken position on the other side of the battlefield.

As Ser Barristan had foretold, the enemy had arranged their Ghiscari legions left from the river and in the common three-line formation. The two sellsword companies, which consisted mostly of cavalry, had taken their position at the left flank.

Judging by the position of the sun it was close to midday, but even so the air felt hot and stifling, making him sweat like a pig.

Dany no Daenerys, who was seated on her Silver, seemed unaffected by the heat. The Unsullied seemed equally unaffected, but that was no surprise to Jon. They were the most disciplined soldiers he had ever seen.

Only Ser Barristan had shared his discomfort when his squires had dressed him in full plate.

Jon hadn’t followed his example. He had chosen lighter armor and a helmet that was open on the front. He also wore his sword, a shield and a spear, though at times he wished for _Longclaw_. His current blade was made of proper Pentoshi steel, but it was nothing compared to real Valyrian steel.

“It is time,” Dany roused him out of his thoughts and searched is gaze. “Ser Barristan’s and Greyworm’s men are in position. Shall we begin?”

Jon tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword and sucked in a deep breath. “You are the Queen. You must decide. You must lead.”

Dany graced him with a smile and lifted her chin, before she addressed the men that had formed the fourth line  behind their cavalry.

“My brave Unsullied! The outcome of this battle will depend on you! Sharpen your spears and remember your orders!”

Lord Stark’s men would have shouted their approval, but the Unsullied only battered their spear tips against their shields, bringing forth a clattering sound.

Dany said no more and shifted her attention to the men carrying the horn that was meant to announce the beginning of the battle.

The sound of the horn rolled over the plain like the sound of thunder, waking the Unsullied out of their frozen state. At once, the men on their left flank under the command of Ser Barristan and the men from the center under the command of Greyworm advanced forward.

It was a gloomy sight to behold, for the Unsullied moved without words, the sound of their footsteps the only sound that could be heard.

What surprised Jon was the enemy’s reaction. He had expected them to attack at, but the enemy remained firm as ever.

“What is going on?” Dany asked him. “Why aren’t they moving?”

“They are waiting and resting,” Jon explained. “And they are probably hoping that the Unsullied will get exhausted from their advance.”

“What can we do?” Dany asked him, but Jon simply jerked his head at their advancing men.

“Nothing,” Jon replied and smiled. By now the Unsullied had crossed half the battlefield, but they had also begun to slow down their approach. “It seems Greyworm and Ser Barristan have long realized that the enemy is trying to play with us.”

“I hope you are right,” Dany replied skeptically and brushed her hand over the small blade fastened around her waist. Seeing her fear made him want to comfort her, but this was not the time nor the place for such displays of affection.

Words of assurance was all he could give her.

“All will be well.”

He felt like a liar, his heartbeat faster than a rabbit as he watched the Unsullied launch their javelin at the enemy.

Jon was in awe at their perfect timing. It seemed as if a hundred of birds had taken flight at once and were now crashing down on the enemy lines.

Jon was too far away to see how much damage they had caused, but not long after the first line collided with the enemy lines, the sound of battle breaking the silence.

“The enemy’s lines remain unbroken,” Dany remarked in obvious disappointment. “I suppose that was to be expected.”

Jon nodded his head in agreement and watched the enemy’s left flank with anticipation.

 _Come on_ , he thought and squirmed in his saddle.  _Now is the right time to send out your cavalry._

Some higher presence must have heard his prayers, for a heartbeat later the attack of the enemy’s cavalry was announced by the high sound of a trumpet.

With the sound of thunder at their heels; the enemy stormed at their right flank, leaving behind them a cloud of dust that made it hard to see further than a few leagues.

“It is time,” Jon announced without hesitation and searched Dany’s gaze.  _This might be the last time I see her_ , he thought with growing anxiety, but brushed these feelings away before they could take hold of his mind. “You know what to do.”

“I know,” she confirmed and graced him with one of her beautiful smiles. “Take care and come back safely. Promise me.”

Her words and smile gave him the courage he needed.

“I will come back,” he promised with a smile before moving his horse away from her towards the fourth line.

He wanted her to remember him with a smile on his lips. That was the least he could do for her.

All the way, he kept his attention fixed on the approaching cavalry and watched their men.

Jon’s heartbeat sped up as he watched them wait for the inevitable clash with the enemy’s cavalry.

Jon was reminded of a swarm of bees, his head rattling from the sound of horse cries and clashing swords.

As expected, it didn’t take long before the enemy cavalry overwhelmed theirs and the rout started.

To the enemy it must feel like a grand triumph. This was evidenced by their whooping battle cries and their lack of hesitation to pursue their supposedly beaten enemy.

Jon almost smiled. They did what he wanted them to do.

It was time to spring their trap.

Quickly, he whirled his horse around the fourth line, raised his spear and gave the order for attack.

“They are coming!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, the whirled-up dust making his eyes burn. “Sharpen your spears! They are coming!”

No sound answer came, but Jon had expected none.

The battle cry of the Unsullied was a silent one. Like death.

Jon had barely taken a breath before  the Unsullied rushed forward, setting a fast pace, but still keeping an orderly formation.

It was a beautiful sight, but Jon had no time to admire the Unsullied’s iron discipline in the face of death.

It was time to fight, Ghost close at his heels.

Thus, he sped up his horse and tightened his grip on his spear.

He forgot everything as he focused his attention on the enemy. His Uncle. Robb. His siblings. Even Dany was nothing but a lingering thought at the edge of his mind as he subtly slowed down his horse and buried his spear deep in the first enemy that came his way.

The man could barely react before he was thrown backwards and kissed the dirt. The next one was overwhelmed by Ghost, who felled his horse as if it was nothing but a pony.

The man’s cries rang in his ears while Jon wheeled his horse around and nearly clashed with another rider. He was clad in thick plate armor and armed with a shining shield. He was also a very skilled rider. He easily avoided Jon’s spear tip.

Jon could almost imagine the man’s smile, but he had no time for such silly thoughts. Clenching his teeth, he lifted his shield and absorbed the attack.

Channeling his strength, he maneuvered his horse forward before aiming at the enemy’s horse, piercing its head.

The animal collapsed like a puppet without strings and its rider was crushed like a beetle.

Jon’s head hurt and sweat was running down his neck like a river, but he was still alive.

Yet he had no time to waste. He had given a promise and he intended to keep it.

Exhaling deeply, he freed his blade and slashed it in the neck of the enemy, hot blood splattering his cloak and helmet.

The next man died just as quickly and the man after that was torn apart by Ghost’s sharp fangs.

After he had killed another man he took a moment to sweep his gaze over the dusty battlefield. The Unsullied were fighting off the enemy cavalry by attacking their horses.

The horses reared in panic and by the time they had crossed half the battlefield, the  enemy’s lines were falling apart.

It was a wonderful sight. The enemy was fleeing. Their trap had worked.

Jon didn’t hesitate to search for one of the captains.

They were easy to differentiate them from the other Unsullied by the red paint around the tip of their spear.

“We must attack the exposed flank! Move! Move!” he shouted and rode along the lines of their men, pointing at the enemy soldiers, who were still keeping Ser Barristan’s and Greyworm’s men pinned down.

Surprised by their attack, The Unsullied  managed to cut deep into the enemy’s lines.

It was a butchery, but Jon’s mind was already somewhere else.

Casting his eyes against the bright sunlight he searched for Dany.

Relief washed over him when he saw that their third line was advancing to strengthen their already fighting men.

Dany had timed the attack perfectly.

He shouldn’t have doubted her.

Brushing his fears away, he whistled at Ghost and shifted his attention back to the battle.

His heart rushed with excitement as he buried his sword in his enemy.

The promise of a victory was better than any of these plants he had consumed in Volantis. When the men riding under the Tattered Prince’s banner finally turned their cloak, his heart soared as high as one of Dany’s dragons.

“Ghost!” he shouted after his wolf. “Stay close!”

By the time, they had encircled the enemy from all sides, the sky was covered with red clouds.

It was hard to even make out the colorful banners of the Unsullied cohorts.

Suddenly, he heard it.

It started with an ear bleeding roar. Suddenly, the sunlight was gone.

As Jon lifted his gaze to the sky he got a glimpse of dark wings, and a glitter of red, before a flash of heat crashed down upon the enemy’s rear.

Drogon returned.

…


	26. Negotiations

**Daenerys**

Dany watched as Drogon continued to feast on the blackened corpses of the enemy soldiers.

They had barely begun to encircle the enemy when her child had swooped down from the sky and had bathed them in hot flames.

Jon, Ser Barristan and Greyworm had been quick enough to call for an orderly retreat back and to put distance between Drogon and themselves.

Even so, Dany was sure that some of her men must have fallen prey to Drogon’s friendly fire attack.

The thought alone was enough to make her heart clench with guilt, but then she had always known what her children were. Wild beasts who didn’t care if their next supper would be a little girl.

_I need to learn to control Drogon_ , she knew and led her Silver closer to her dragon while Jon and a good dozen of Unsullied following after her.  _Or I will never be able to go home._

At a safe distance, she climbed from her horse and turned around to look at Jon. He was more or less unharmed, but his face was deeply flushed and his hair sweaty from the helmet he had worn during the battle.

Even Ghost, who was rarely frightened by something, kept an appropriate distance, his ruby eyes watching them.

“Ghost should stay away,” Dany told Jon after he had climbed from his horse, holding it by the reins. “I do not want see him hurt.”

“Ghost is smart enough to stay away,” Jon assured her and stretched out his hand, taking the rein of her Silver. He looked tense and as his dark eyes darted to Drogon she believed to see a hint of fear in them. “But are you sure that you want to get close to him? He seems very angry.”

_Drogon must hate me_ , she knew and clutched her chest _. I imprisoned his brothers._

And yet, he was still her child and her responsibility. She owed it to the little girl that she learned how to control him.

“He is my child,” she assured Jon and graced him with a last smile, before gathering her courage and moving towards Drogon. “He won’t harm me. I know it.”

By now, he had stopped feasting on the blackened bones and lay down, his tail curled around his body. Drawing closer, she realized how much he had grown over the last moons.

His jet-black wings stretched at least twenty feet and gave him the appearance of a black shadow. The rest of his body was also black. Only his horns, spinal plates and his eyes were red smoldering pits.

_If he continues to grow at such a speed he will be the next Balerion the Dread._

Stepping over these blackened corpses, her heartbeat increasing with every step she took towards the dragon.

When she was only a few steps away Drogo turned his head and looked at her, his mouth slightly open.

He smelled of death. It was a sweet smell, but worse was the sheer heat she felt radiating from his body.

She was the Unburnt and yet she was sure that Drogon’s flames could kill her like any other person.

She was nothing but a piece of flesh like these blackened corpses littering the ground.

The thought caused her to stop her approach.

Drogon seemed to sense her fear and opened his massive mouth, baring his sharp teeth to her as his head drew closer.

His breath felt like a furnace and Dany tried her best to ignore her insecurities.

“Drogon!” she called out at the top of her lungs. “It is me!”

Drogon seemed to recognize her voice and bridged the distance between them, his jaw brushing against her hand. She smiled and quickly pulled her hand away. It had felt like a hot brazier.

As he had moved, he had spread his wings, but his tail was straight as if he was about to take flight.

Dany’s heart was pounding loudly, drowning out all sound around her.

It felt as if her and Drogon were the only beings left in the world.

And yet, there was distance between them. When Drogon was still a hatchling she had always felt some sort of connecting with him, but now  it felt as if he was keeping her at a distance.

Yet, she needed to try. She was after all the Mother of Dragons.

“Come here!” she called out again and took a glance at his back. All she had to do was climb on his back and soar over the blue sky. “Drogon!”

It could have been so easy, but she knew that it wasn’t when Drogon bared his sharp teeth and gave a defiant roar.

Again The sweet smell of death filled her nose as she stared into Drogon’s opened mouth. It was the first time she felt afraid of him. His sharp teeth reminded her of the Unsullied’s spears.

Yet, she was to stubborn to give in.

_I must try again,_  she reminded herself and trembled as she made another step towards Drogon, stretching out her hand as his smoldering eyes were following her movement. _I must try again._

“Drogon! It is me! ” she shouted once more, but again he backed away and gave an angry roar, drowning out her words. “Listen…!”

Dany felt both fear and frustration.

She was ready to try again, but someone had grabbed her around the waist and had dragged her backwards before Drogon unleashed a bout of flames on  the nearby corpses.

The flames hadn’t been directed at her, she knew, but it seems Drogon was still angry with her.

“Let me go!” she couldn’t help but to company and freed herself from Jon’s grip. Then she watched as Drogon took flight, his black wings spread wide.

It felt as if Drogon had abandoned her. It hurt and stirred her anger.

“Daenerys…,” Jon’s concerned voice filled her ears, but she cut him off.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, unable to hold her disappointment at bay. It had been so long that she had last laid eyes on Drogon and now he was gone again. “I wanted to tame him.”

“I thought he might hurt you,” Jon replied apologetically and gave her a worried look. “I didn’t mean…” he trailed off and averted his gaze.

Dany realized her mistake.

“I am not angry with you,” Dany assured him then and stepped closer to search his gaze. “In truth, I am angry at myself. It is my fault…I shouldn’t have chained his brothers. That must be the reason for Drogon’s anger.”

“Then, we shall free them when we return to Meereen,” Jon assured her and touched her shoulder. She expected him to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead he turned and whistled, calling Ghost to his side.

The direwolf appeared at once and Dany’s gaze darted one last time to the sky, hopeful to see Drogon return.

Yet he was gone.

“We shall free them,” she promised and gave Jon a sad smile, before climbing back into her saddle.

The sun was already descending when they returned to the city. They had won, but Dany took no pleasure in the victory. The people from Yunkai were still starving and the refugees’ from Astapor were still dying. And as long as the ships from Qarth were blocking the waterways trade would be difficult.

_If she had a dragon at my command everything would be much easier_ , she knew, but that was not her only realization blooming in her mind.

There was still a matter of Quentyn Martell. She had told Jon that she had no intention to give any promises regarding a match until they reached Dorne.

In truth, Dany saw little use in a match between herself and Quentyn Martell. She was barren and she didn’t want to live a life in which her husband was waiting for her to bear an heir.

Her affections for Jon made the situation even more difficult for her. At times, she wished he wasn’t her nephew. Then, she wouldn’t feel so torn between her affections for him and her duty to her family legacy.

No matter how she twisted and turned  the truth, the facts  remained clear as ever. Jon was the only person capable of continuing the Targaryen line.

Her heart ached at the thought of having to share him with another woman, but it was the only way.

Yet again she pushed these feelings away and focused on the now. As always, her handmaids helped her wash off the sooth from the battle and then they broke their fast on fresh dates and nuts.

The Unsullied were offered wine and better food, but most refused while Ben Plumm’s and Daario’s sellswords were pleased to celebrate and were soon joined by the Windblown. Some more wine casks were opened, women of were called to entertain them and jolly songs were played.

It was a victory celebration and yet the enemy was not completely vanquished or so Quentyn Martell had told her. Several thousand men had abandoned the battlefield after their lines were overrun, but Dany had given no order to pursue them.

Some of enemy soldiers that had fled even came over to them and were now residing in the city, though kept apart from the other men. Dany feared they might hurt them.

Once she had finished her meal, she sent Jhiqui and Irri on their way and asked Missandei to fetch her a quill and paper.

Not long after, she called for Ser Barristan to bring Prince Quentyn into her presence.

“Please seat down and eat,” she offered politely and waved her hand at the cushioned seat placed on the wooden floor. She had also asked Irri to leave the bowl of nuts and dates while Missandei had gone to fetch them a flagon of wine which she was now pouring into the Dornish Prince’s cup.

All the while Dany had taken her time to watch him closely. Quentyn Martell was a comely boy, but otherwise she found no reason to dislike him.

He had said not much as Missandei had filled his cup to the brim, before doing the same with hers. Smiling, Dany patted at the cushioned seat beside her and her little scribe didn’t hesitate to sit down, preparing her quill if there was need for it.

“It is Ghiscari wine, but better than nothing,” Dany remarked to break the silence. “The dates are good, though I am not sure if you share the same taste. Well, my brother told me that Dorne is famous for two things…its oranges and Dornish wine.”

This seemed to reassure the young man enough to finally speak.

“The Dornish wine is too bitter for my taste,” the young man explained and shrugged his shoulders before he took a sip from his cup. “I prefer Arbor gold, but do not tell my father. He holds not much love for Lord Tyrell’s kin.”

Dany was surprised by this.

“How so? What did Lord Tyrell do to invoke Prince Doran’s anger? Because he bent the knee for the usurper?”

“Gods no,” the young man replied and placed the cup back on the floor, his dark eyes darting to the dates. He looked at them for a moment, but then he shifted his attention back to her. “The reason was an unfortunate accident during a tilt. My Uncle Oberyn unhorsed Lord Tyrell’s son and crippled him irrevocably. Lord Tyrell accused my Uncle of doing it on purpose, but that is utter nonsense. Well, my father is not the kind of man who would forgives easily and thus he still holds a grudge against Lord Mace Tyrell.”

Dany found herself astounded by what she had heard. Prince Doran and this Mace Tyrell sounded as if they had the mindset of a children…

It made her realize that a long and hard way lay ahead of her…and Jon.

“I see, but surely your father wouldn’t be against working together with Lord Tyrell if it meant to serve our cause?”

Quentyn’s torn look told her otherwise.

“I cannot speak on my father’s behalf, your Grace,” he explained and shrugged his shoulders. “He sent me here for one reason only, to fulfil the pact that has been agreed on.”

It took all her effort not to wince at the mention of the marriage pact.

Yet she also feared that the longer she waited the more upset Quentyn Martell might be when he found out the truth. Thus, she decided to bare her intentions to him. And if he was not willing to help her, well, then she would have to depend on herself. Like she had told Jon.

_I shall defeat the slavers and the Sons of the Harpy. I shall free my dragons and then I will go home to re-take my father’s crown._

“I appreciate your offer, my Prince,” she replied and sucked in a deep breath. “But I cannot marry you. There is an impediment that makes it impossible.”

Quentyn Martell squirmed beneath her gaze, a hint of anger  apparent in his dark eyes, yet he remained calm and polite. A true Prince, though he looked more like a boy.

_I too look like a girl queen_ , she knew and forced a smile over her lips, hoping it will help to ease Quentyn Martell’s obvious displeasure.

“Don’t you want to know why I can’t marry you? You made all this way? That must be a disappointment for you.”

Prince Quentyn Martell froze, his mouth falling open, but no sound coming of it. Dany also believed to see a hint of pink on his cheeks.

“It has nothing to do with you, my Prince,” Dany told him and took a sip from her cup, before she lay her heart bare to this young Prince of Dorne. “The fault is mine alone.”

Prince Quentyn’s eyes widened in confusion, his fingers digging deep into his yellow tunic. It was a far cry from the sellsword garb he had worn during their first meeting.

“I do not understand,” he stuttered and searched her face again, as if he hoped to find out the truth by looking at her face. “What fault could there be, your Grace?”

Dany nodded to her and put her goblet away. Her hand was trembling:

She wouldn’t look away. She was the blood of the dragon. She couldn’t show fear.

“The sad truth is…I can’t bear children…I am barren,” she replied and fell silent, giving Prince Quentyn enough time to absorb this new piece of information.

The effect was palpable and showed on his face. He looked both confused and embarrassed.

“I do not understand….,” he stuttered, his cheeks pink with obvious embarrssment. “How can you be so sure?”

Dany was surprised by his question, but she couldn’t tell him that she believed in the words of a witch. He would laugh at her or think her a liar.

 “The woman attended to me during my first pregnancy told me so,” Dany replied instead. “She was a learned woman.”

Quentyn was silent for a long time, but eventually managed to find his voice.

“Please, do not think that I hold no respect for your servants, your Grace, but I do think you should consult a Maester before accepting such a truth. What qualifications did this woman have beyond being a midwife?”

Dany felt anger rising inside her. It had cost her much to tell him the truth, but it was necessary if she wanted to convince Prince Quentyn Martell about her plans for Jon.

“She claimed to be trained by a Maester,” Dany insisted.

“Your Grace…,” Quentyn Martell was about to protest, but Dany cut him off. She had spoken enough of this topic.

“I told you what I know,” she said and sighed deeply. “And while I cannot marry you, I want to make offer to Dorne, which I hope you will accept on behalf of your father Prince Doran Martell. Will you hear me out at least?”

Quentyn Martell gave a quiet nod.

“I cannot act on behalf of my father, but I came too long of a way to return with empty hands. Please tell me about your plans.”

Dany felt hope and began to explain.

“I am aware what the Dornish would think of Lyanna Stark and her son, but you could say the same about my father. My father was an evil man and it was him who kept Princess Elia in King’s Landing. The way I see it, he and Tywin Lannister hold a greater responsibility for the death of your Aunt than my brother Rhaegar and for that matter Lyanna Stark. She was half a child when she ran away with my brother and love makes people do foolish things. I do not expect forgiveness from Dorne, but if your father is prepared to consider a match with the Mad King’s daughter, surely your father would also be prepared to consider a match with my nephew?”

Quentyn Martell looked as if he had been hit by thunder.

“I do not quite understand, your Grace?”

 Dany sighed in frustration. Quentyn Martell was either playing dumb or her offer had surprised him.

_He doesn’t believe that Jon is my nephew_ , she realized at once. _Well, then I need to change his mind._

“You heard quite right. I want to arrange a match for my nephew and your sister. The one that was meant to marry Viserys. In return for Dorne’s support your sister would receive a crown and revenge against those who murdered Princess Elia Martell and her children.” _That is if Jon agrees._

Again, Quentyn Martell gave her this dumb look.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he apologized at once. “But why do you believe this boy? He looks nothing like a Targaryen and the story he made up is questionable at best. He could be trying to fool you…,” he continued, but Dany cut him off again.

“Ser Barristan told me he shows quite a resemblance to Prince Duncan the Prince of Dragonflies and…my dragons like him. At least, they did when they were younger. I am sure of it, Jon will one day ride one of them. That is all I am going to say on this topic. Jon is my nephew, whether you or your family denies this fact or not.”

“Even so, he is Lyanna Stark’s son,” Quentyn Martell replied with growing frustration. “My father would never agree to this. He is not the kind of man who forgives easily. And my Uncle Oberyn…he would spit in the boy’s face.”

“A Slight against _his_ family?” Dany asked, her temper rising. She should have known better than to believe that Prince Doran actually cared about House Targaryen. He had not lifted a single finger to help them while Dany and Viserys were reduced to beggars. She had been polite so far, but she felt the need to set him straight. “Well, I am surprised to hear that a wizened man like Prince Doran Martell would be so petty to hold a grudge against a boy that was nothing but a babe on his mother’s breast when his sister and her children perished. If we all thought like that then I too should hold a grudge against House Martell. I am only a silly girl, but even I know my history lessons. Has Dorne not murdered King Daeron Young Dragon? Has Dorne not murdered Queen Rhaenys Targaryen? If we were to take revenge for every little slight of the past we would live in constant quarrel with each other and if your father cannot look beyond my nephew’s birth then I have no use for an allegiance with Dorne.”

Quentyn Martell paled visibly and barely managed to keep his composure.

“My father is many things, but certainly not petty,” he defended his father through. “Your brother shamed my Aunt and this boy…he is the fruit of that. My sister might be able to overlook his birth, but Dorne would not. They would curse the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.

Dany couldn’t help but to clench her teeth. She tried to keep a semblance of composure as she lifted her cup, realizing that the cup was empty. She had a sudden taste for milk and honey, but now was not the time to give in to such childish cravings.  She needed to act a Queen.

“Call my nephew bastard once more and I shall banish you from this city,” Dany replied in a warningly. “Is that understood?”

 “It was not my intention to insult you, your Grace, but I must speak openly for I fear for your safety,” Quentyn Martell replied and dipped his head. “I can see that you are attached to this Jon Snow, but associating yourself with this boy won’t bring you any friends in Dorne or elsewhere. I suggest this…allow yourself to be inspected by  a proper Maester. My Aunt was frail and sickly, but even she was able to conceive children. I see no reason why you shouldn’t…,” he trailed off when he noticed Dany’s angry stare.

She was glad for it, for otherwise she would have probably said something discourteous.

“I think I have heard enough for today, Prince Quentyn. We shall speak once more when we return to Meereen. There is someone else with whom I wish to speak. “

“As you wish, your Grace,” Quentyn Martell replied curtly and departed shortly after.

Missandei meant to offer her more wine, but Dany waved her away, for her next visitor had arrived. The Tattered Prince, the leader of the Windblown.

Dany had called upon him to receive his vows of loyalty, though in truth she also wanted to see what kind of a man he was and if their allegiance had a future.

He was an old man, but his sad blue eyes had a softness to them that many other sellswords lacked. He reminded her a bit of Ser Barristan, who was waiting in the anteroom as befitted the captain of her Queensguard. _Or Kingsguard_ , Dany corrected herself. Quentyn Martell had refused her offer, but she was still determined to go to Dorne. Doran Martell might be a proud man, but he also might change his mind once he sees her dragons.

“I have come to give you my vows, your Grace.”

“So you have, my Prince. And I thank you for turning your cloak,” she replied and smiled sweetly. “I will not forget what you did and you shall have a reward. You and your men shall receive gold. Yet, I doubt that would be enough for a man like you?”

A surprised expression took hold of his weather-worn features.

“It is Pentos what I want…it’s my hearts greatest desire.”

“So I have heard,” Dany confirmed and waited for a moment until Missandei had placed a fresh cup in front of him, before filling it to the brim. “You have been fighting more than thirty years to re-take this city, isn’t that so?”

“Indeed,” he replied and accepted the cup from Missandei’s hands, though he left it untouched. “I have been fighting for a long time and I am not getting any younger.”

“Then we are kindred spirits, for since I am old enough to understand anything I have been fighting to re-take my father’s crown. That is why I think our allegiance could be beneficial for both of us.”

The Tattered Prince had nodded his head in agreement. “What would this allegiance entail?”

“That I am going to help you re-take Pentos and in return you would help me in my quest for the Iron Throne. I saw your men fight. I would do well to have you fighting beneath my banner.”

“A kind offer,” the Tattered Prince admitted. “And I am inclined to accept it, but may I ask why you are so ready to agree to this? I can only offer you three thousand men and taking a city is a difficult thing to do.”

“Illyrio Mopatis,” Dany replied plainly. “He is the reason I want to take Pentos. There are questions I want to ask him _.” Why did you fool my brother? Why did you tell him that the Dothraki would bring him a crown?_

Recognition showed on the Tattered Prince’s face.

“Illyrio Mopatis is a familiar name,” he said and took a sip from his cup. “I heard about him. Barely two decades ago he caused a great scandal by marrying one of his slave girls…Serra was her name. They said she was a Lysean whore of great beauty. Silver hair and purple eyes…much like you, your Grace.”

Dany found that interesting and waved her hand at him.

“Please tell me more. My brother and I have resided more than a year in Magister Illyrio’s home and I know next to nothing about him.”

“I don’t know him well,” the Tattered Prince replied and shrugged his shoulders. “All I know are these rumors. I know that said girl died from the pox and that Illyrio was beyond himself with grief. I also heard that he had a son with her that followed her into an early grave. Many of his enemies thought it a just punishment for marrying a slave girl. That is all I heard, your Grace.”

None of this had answered her questions, but it also showed her that the Tattered Prince was willing to cooperate with her.

“I thank you nonetheless,” Dany assured him with another smile. “And now I would like to hear your vow.”

“It would be my pleasure, your Grace,” the Tattered Prince replied and gave his vow, before departing, his cup half empty.

Not long after, she heard the clinking of Ser Barristan’s armor.

“What are your thoughts on my conversation with Prince Quentyn?” Dany asked and searched his gaze. His eyes were deep and blue, like the sea on a clear day. She could have drowned in them, but she also noticed the sadness. “Will you leave me now that you know the truth?”

“I see no truth,” Ser Barristan replied in a calmly. “And I have to agree with the Prince. I think you should first consult a Maester. Your Lady Mother also suffered many miscarriages. I might be possible that you inherited these difficulties.”

Dany had wished to hear something different.

“I do not wish to hear more about these Maesters,” she couldn’t help but to avoid the topic. “I want to hear whether you are still loyal to my cause.”

“Of course,” he replied and lowered his head. “Why would you question my loyalty?”

“I do not know,” she admitted sadly and started to tremble. It felt as if these prophecies were slowly poisoning her mind. “I just wanted to be sure.”

She sighed deeply and forced a smile over her lips.

“Well, I was not able to secure a match for Jon. I suppose I have to find someone else unless Prince Quentyn changes his mind. Do you have someone in mind?”

Ser Barristan looked taken back by her words, but answered honestly as ever.

“Lady Margaery Tyrell would be the obvious choice. Her father is an ambitious man who always dreamed of winning a crown for his daughter, but there is one problem. When I left she was still wed to Renly Baratheon and I think it is not unlikely that he prevailed against his brother.”

Dany huffed in frustration.

“Well, I suppose I will have to turn Lady Margaery Tyrell  into a happy widow.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan added cautiously. “Your concern is commendable, but have you considered your nephew’s desires? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would…,” he trailed off. Not that there was any need for him to say something. She was sure that he knew about her and Jon.

“I shall speak to him,” Dany replied. _And convince him._ _I will make clear to him that my affections for him are still true…but that I also have need of his help. Jon has never disappointed me and I am sure he won’t disappoint me now._

Laster, as she walked through the dimly-lit corridors, she wondered what she should say, if anything at all. Yet all these thoughts fled from her mind when she saw the warm smile playing on Jon’s lips.

Yet, instead of speaking her mind she walked straight into his arms to seek comfort.

Carefully, he touched her hair and gave her a concerned look.

“Is something amiss, Dany?”

Dany exhaled deeply, lacking the right of words. What did  What could she say? Nothing made sense anymore.

Everything felt wrong.

Instead of giving an answer she lifted herself on her toes and placed a kiss on his lips, which was soon followed by another kiss…

She shouldn’t have given in, but she craved his touch like a sweet she could eat a hundred times and never feel sated.

When they were done, the night had fallen and they were  naked as newborn babes, though Dany quickly pulled a robe over her body when she felt the chill of the night creeping into her bones.

“You came to tell me something?” Jon asked after a moment of silence had passed between them. “What is it?”

Dany pulled her legs to her chest and fixed her gaze to the ground. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

“I spoke to Quentyn Martell,” she replied quietly. “I doubt he is going to support us.”

Jon’s gaze darkened immediately and he drew closer, touching her shoulder.

“Because you refused to marry him?”

“Partly,” Dany forced the words over her lips. “But mostly because I told him something…I was a fool.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I am unable to have children,” Dany forced the words over her lips and trembled as she angled her head to look at him.

Understanding showed on Jon’s face.

“You lost your first babe,” was all he said and brushed her silver hair out of her face. “Is that the reason?”

“Perhaps,” Dany replied and shrugged her shoulders. “The witch who killed my son implied it when she gave me a cursed prophecy.”

Jon’s dark eyes widened in surprise.

“Prophecy?”

“A prophecy,” she repeated and touched the hand resting on her cheek. “I know how mad that sounds, but ever since I birthed my children I am barren. The dragons will be my only children.”

She paused and waited for an answer, but Jon remained silent. Thus, she broke the silence.

“Do you know what that means?”

“I think I do,” he confirmed  at last and dropped his hand into his lap. “But why are you so sure that this witch told you the truth? She killed the Khal and murdered your son. By all evidence she must have hated you. I think you should consider consulting…,” she  began, but Dany cut him off.

She couldn’t help it. She wanted no false hope.

“The dragons are my only children,” she insisted. “Do you understand?”

Jon looked as if he wanted to protest, but he kept his true thoughts to himself.

“I understand,” Jon assured her and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Is that why Quentyn Martell refused the allegiance?”

“No,” Dany gave him the truth, but didn’t pull her hand away. His touch gave her comfort. “No, it had more to do with the fact that I tried to arrange a betrothal between you and his sister.”

Jon looked as if she had poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

“You did…what?”

Dany was not surprised by his reaction and forced a smile over her lips.

“How else can I hope to continue the Targaryen line? You are the only other dragon I know. That is why you must wed.”

“I cannot,” he protested and dropped her hand. “I cannot marry some random woman. I am no broodmare!”

Dany grabbed his hand, before he was able to get away.

“You are not!” she assured him quickly. “Not if you don’t want. I would have asked for your approval before giving my agreement. Please, try to understand my reasoning. I carry a heavy burden and I want you to share it with me. What I am traying to say…I think it is time for you to stop acting a bastard…Jon Targaryen sounds strange, but it is better than Jon Snow.”

“It is the only name I know,” he countered, his voice laced with obvious displeasure. There was suddenly something cold and distant in his gaze. “I wasn’t aware that my name bothered you do much?”

Dany understood his anger. She knew how much his life as a bastard had pained him and yet she had also come to realize that he held certain affections for his humble life.

“Your name wouldn’t bother me if we were common people,” she gave him the hard truth. “I intend to make you a King and a King needs heirs. That is the sad truth.”

Jon swallowed hard and turned away from her. He cradled his face between his hands as he pondered over her words.

He looked very upset.

“What about us?” he asked suddenly and lifted his head to look at her. “Was it all a game for you?”

“No,” she replied fearfully and leaned forward to pull on his shoulder. “Please don’t think that. And it doesn’t have to end. It is a long way to Westeros and even if you were wed…our entanglement would pose no danger to your future lady as all your children would be hers to bear.”

Jon grabbed her hand and kissed it once more.

“I am not like that,” he insisted. “I don’t wish to use another woman as a broodmare. That would be dishonorable towards her and you.”

“This is not a question of honor,” Dany replied and tried not to flinch when his dark eyes pierced into hers. “This is about the survival of House Targaryen.”

Jon’s gaze softened, though his cheeks were still slightly flushed as he leaned in to touch her cheek.

“I know, but I can’t do that. That is not the kind of person I am. And you shouldn’t put trust into this witch’s prophecy. She doesn’t sound like a very trustworthy person.”

Dany wanted to believe him, desperately so.

“No, she doesn’t sound like a very trustworthy person,” she replied and smiled sadly.

…


	27. The Lion King

**The Lion King**

Jaime had never desired a crown. He had never wanted to be a Lord, let alone a King. All he had ever wanted was to be a knight like Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning and to bury his cock in Cersei.

For whatever reason the gods had decided to punish him for his godless wishes.

 _The gods are cunts_ , Tyrion had told him more than once, but Jaime had never cared about the laws of gods and men. Neither had Cersei when she was ten and two and had slipped beneath his bedding to taste his cock. Only when Cersei had been sent to court to serve as Queen Rhaella’s lady-in-waiting had their time together come to an end.

For this short time, Jaime had been betrothed, namely to Lady Lysa Tully and would have probably wed her had Cersei not hatched a clever plan to get him not into the Kingsguard.

He still recalled how happy he had felt when King Aerys had allowed him to join the Kingsguard. All his boyhood dreams had culminated into this moment. Finally, he would become the knight he had always wanted to be, but in the end it had turned out to be another ruse.

The Mad King hadn’t allowed Jaime to join the Kingsguard to honor his abilities in swordsmanship, but to humiliate his father.

Yet that had only been the beginning of his trials. Barely a moon later, he had been tasked to stand guard at the Queen’s door in company of Ser Jon Darry. That night the King had visited the Queen and had made her scream like an animal. Never before in his life had Jaime heard such inhuman cries and never in his life had Jaime been more terrified.

That night he had realized what King Aerys truly was: a monster in human form.

Trembling, he had turned to the only person available to him, Ser Darry.

Yet the older knight had silenced him with a sharp look and had given him the bitter truth.

 _We are here to protect him not her_ , he had said. Jaime had learned his lesson that night and had kept his mouth shut. That was until the Mad King had committed a grave mistake: he had asked for his father’s head.

That day he had slain the Mad King with his golden sword. What had happened afterwards were nothing but blurry memories. He remembered sinking to his knees after the rush of anger had left him. Then, he had sat down on the Iron Throne, his blade still bloody from his ungodly deed.

By that time, he had broken his vow twice. First, he had slain his King and secondly, he had neglected protecting the Prince’s wife and  children.

Thinking of their butchered corpses, made bile rise up inside his throat. He had never cared much about the children he made with Cersei. Joff had been rotten to the core, so much Jaime had realized after he had seen the boy pick apart a pregnant cat, but Tommen had been as innocent as Septa. He didn’t even know what had happened to that plump child that had loved his kittens as much as his plum pudding. Yet it was Cersei he couldn’t bear to think about…

Had she died like Rhaegar’s Princess? Had she been raped before they had murdered her?

The thought made his eyes burn. He had never felt so much hatred coursing through his veins.

It also reminded him of his purpose: to bury his blade in Stannis’ Baratheon’s black heart. And when he was done with him he would fuck his Red Witch and mount the head of his greyscale-infested child upon the ramparts of Storm’s End.

 _No_ , he realized with horror. That girl was ugly to behold, but she was as innocent as Tommen.

Jaime Lannister had sinned too much. He knew now that all these dishonorable acts had been the source of his family’s downfall.

If he hadn’t prodded Cersei into a quick fuck in that tower in Winterfell all of this wouldn’t have happened.

 _The gods cursed me_ , he knew and smiled bitterly when he touched the golden crown embellished with eight shining rubies. They had belonged to Cersei and before her to his mother. He had thought it only right that he would put them into his crown.

_Can you see me, sweet sister? Can you see me, father? I shall be King to give Mace Tyrell’s girl a crown. Then, I will kill Stannis Baratheon and his Red Whore._

He felt the sudden urge to laugh, but only a bitter chuckle spilled from his lips as he lifted the crown atop his golden-curled head.

The crown felt heavy and he couldn’t help but to laugh again. It was a thin laugh, almost like the Mad King had laughed whenever he had burned a pickpocket.

The memory made him shiver and then he laughed again.

 _A Kingslayer turned King_ , he thought and braced himself on the table, his laughter only intensifying as he held his stomach. _Oh, how mad that sounds!_

He wanted to empty his fast upon the floor, he wanted to laugh and he wanted to weep, all at once.

 _Mayhaps I am really going mad_ , he thought and chuckled to himself. _The next Mad King in the making._

“Jaime,” his Uncle Kevan’s well-meaning voice filled his hears. Ye Jaime couldn’t bring himself to answer. He felt numb and dead. “Jaime…my boy.”

The touch on his shoulder angered him only more and he had to bite his lips to suppress the urge to send away his Uncle.

 _That is unworthy of you_ , he knew and lifted his head, searching his Uncle’s gaze.

His Uncle was a big man with broad shoulders and a thick waist. His short blond hair was balding and his close-cropped beard made his massive jaw appear even bigger. He was not handsome and rather portly, though that said little about his character. His father had died in King’s Landing when Stannis had sacked the city and now his Uncle was the only person left to guide him.

As expected, his Uncle had dressed even more splendidly as usual, his silken cloak held together by a golden brooch that looked like a lion’s head.

Jaime himself had dressed in golden finery, his crimson cloak as bright as the sunset. The cloak had been the same his father had worn when he had wed his Lady Mother, Lady Joanna Lannister.

 _Not now_ , he remined himself and gritted his teeth, drawing almost blood. Thinking about his mother made him think of Cersei, but any thought of Cersei made it only harder for him to go through with this planned wedding.

“Jaime,” his Uncle’s voice rang in his ears. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard,” Jaime snapped back and whirled around to search his Uncle’s gaze anew. “But I am no longer Jaime to you. If you want me to act a King use the proper title, Uncle. Your Grace.”

With one more smile at his Uncle, he turned his back on him and prepared to face his destiny.

The Sept of Highgarden was adorned with thousands of golden roses, the gilded statues of the Seven and a jeweled ceiling that glowed in rainbow colors whenever the light fell upon it.

Jaime swept his gaze over the witnesses. There was Mace Tyrell, a once handsome man with a massive girth. His grey-haired wife Lady Alerie, his withering mother Olenna Tyrell, his crippled heir Willas, his other two knightly sons Garlan and Loras Tyrell and several cousins and other witnesses belonging to the numerous houses of the Reach the Tyrells had formed allegiances with through marriage.

Jaime’s own retinue was smaller. There was his Uncle Kevan, his two remaining sons William and Martyn Lannister, His Aunt Genna and Ser Devan Lannister. Of his Lords only Lord Tytos Brax, Lord Roland Crakenhall and his heir Tybolt, Lord Leo Lefford, the freshly widowed Lewys Lydden and at Jaime’s old friend Ser Addam Marbrand had accompanied him to Highgarden. The others had remained in the Westerlands to defend them against a possible assault by Stannis Baratheon.

Amidst this congregation of witnesses he found the Septon, who waited between the altars of the Father and Mother.

Soon, there was music ringing in his ears and the smell of incense filling his nose. Even as a little boy he had always disliked the smell of incense as it reminded him of his mother’s death. For several days the Silent Sisters had laid out her body and everyday Jaime and Cersei had been forced to pray for her in company of the Septon, the smell of incense ever present in his nose.

It was the smell of grief and death, but perhaps that was only right. For without the death of his father and sister he would have never found himself in this position.

Accompanied by hushed whispers he found his bride entering the Sept and take the hand of her father, Lord Mace Tyrell.

Most would have called Lady Margaery Tyrell a lovely girl. She had a finely-shaped face that was framed by curly brown hair and two golden eyes that seemed to smile at him.

Yet to Jaime it felt so very wrong to have her stand beside him like this.

The girl must have sensed his coldness for when she came to stand beside him her face was utterly solemn. She said nothing as he offered his hand to her, which she accepted.

Together they faced the Septon, who gave the seven blessings and the seven songs and the seven vows, tough at one-point Jaime lost track of the old man’s rambling. When he was finally done, Jaime undid the clasp of his bride’s green cloak and replaced it with his golden one.

Satisfied, the Septon raised his glimmering crystal, pouncing Jaime and his Tyrell bride to be one flesh, one soul and one heart. Jaime felt only disgust at himself when he placed a kiss on his bride’s pink lips.

It was a brief kiss, though not unpleasant. It could have been worse.

Not long after, they emerged from the Sept to attend to their wedding feast, though Jaime felt more in mood for a funeral. Still, there were flowers to be had, minstrels who played their jolly tunes, a bloody fool named Buttercup who hopped from table to table and a five-course meal of a variety of meat ranging from chicken to peacock and at last a table filled with pastries.

His bride ate nothing and spent most of the night dancing with her brothers and once with his father. Occasionally, the girl glanced at him, probably pondering whether he would dance with her eventually, but Jaime felt in no mood for such nonsense. He had never been a good dancer, but that was not the reason for his refusal. It would feel as if he was dancing on Cersei’s grave.

The rest of the evening felt like a blur of music and drinking, until some drunken fool called for the bedding. Jaime had by then drowned nearly a good dozen of cups and his head was pounding painfully as the gigging ladies were leading him into his nuptial chambers, tearing and plucking off his clothes one after another. His bride must have suffered a similar fate for she was devoid of most of her clothing when he found her sitting in the comfortable featherbed.

Most maids were afraid during their wedding night or so Jaime had always believed. Even Cersei had sought his company before her father had forced her into Robert Baratheon’s bed, but the Tyrell girl seemed unnaturally calm, a hint of a smile curling on her pink lips as laid eyes on his manhood.

 _This is no blushing maid_ , he realized at once, an amused though entering his mind. _Could it be that Renly Baratheon managed to pluck Mace Tyrell’s golden rose?_

Not that Jaime cared about that. He needed her father’s swords not her cunt.

The realization made him more daring.

“Tell me, lady wife,” he said in a slightly mocking tone. “Do you like my cock?”

Any normal maid would have blushed, but Lady Margaery Tyrell bared her teeth and pulled her white shift over her shoulders, leaving her bare to him.

It was a pleasant sight. She had slim body, two peart breasts and brown curls that covered her cunt.

It was enough to wake his desires.

“It is true what they say,” Lady Margaery added seductively and pointed at his cock.  The Lannisters are golden-haired from the tip of their toes to the hair on their head.”

Surprisingly, Jaime stared to laugh.

Mayhaps this marriage wouldn’t be as bad as he thought. His cock was hard enough and his lady wife was at least not boring.

Still, he doubted he would be able to fuck her while he was looking at her face.

It would be unfair towards Cersei.

“They also say we shit gold. Another lie,” Jaime replied jestingly and stepped closer towards the bed. “Now turn around, my lady and let us get this over with.”

…


	28. The Butcher of Meereen

**Jon**

The Shavepate awaited them in the hall of pink marble that served as the council room, a dozen of his brazen beasts standing guard along the walls. Most of them were freedmen and wore brass masks formed in the shape of fanciful beats to protect their identity.

The Shavepate’s beetle-browed face, his small eyes, his oily yellow skin and his big dark nose were ugly to behold, but Jon was still relieved when found him alive.

When they had arrived at Meereen the city had been besieged by two more Ghiscari legions. They had been in the process of erecting their siege weapons when their Unsullied and sellswords had attacked their camp located across the muddy river that curled its way through Meereen.

The Ghiscari had fought bravely, defending their camp till the last men, but when the city gates had opened and the Shavepate had the rest of Dany’s Unsullied forces take formation before Meereen’s colorful walls the will of the Ghiscari legions had been broken and their lines had started to fall apart.

Within a matter of hours they had captured the camp and the siege machines. The Mother’s Men had wanted to tear them apart, but Ser Barristan had stopped them, making them understand that these machines could still be of use to them in the future.

At dawn, the last fighting had ended and Dany had led her Unsullied back behind the safety of Meereen’s city walls.

The freedmen had cheered for her, but most of the inhabitants of the city had holed themselves up, probably fearing that the freedmen might attack them now that they were drunk on two victories.

Jon couldn’t fault them for their caution, for he had seen with his own eyes what anger could do to people. Astapor had been his first learning experience and his second the rotting heads currently lining the plaza beneath the Great Pyramid.

 _The Shavepate’s work_ , he knew at once. Young and old men were among them, but their rich clothing told him that they belonged to the noble class of Meereen. The sight hadn’t fazed Jon nor had it shocked him, but Dany’s pale face had told him that she was not at all happy with her servant’s work.

 _The Shavepate must have had his reasons_ , Jon had assured her, but he knew that there would be a discussion to be had.

The tension only grew when Dany noticed the absence of Reznak, the perfumed bootlicker that had always been squirming around her and had unsuccessfully tried to convince her to wed a nobleman of this city.

He and the Green Grace had always been suspicious to Jon, which is why he had been pleased when Dany had finally stopped listening to their advice.

“Your Worship,” the Shavepate greeted her.

“Skahaz no Skahaz,” Dany greeted him rather briskly and sat down on the wooden bank she used as her throne. She was still garbed in a red tunic and black pants, her hair tightly braided atop of her head and the usual bells fastened on her braid.  “Where is the rest of my council? Where is Reznak?”

“Reznak turned out to be a traitor,” the Shavepate replied without hesitation. “That is why he isn’t here, your Worship. I am not surprised that you didn’t recognize his head. By now the crows must have picked up his eyes. I wasn’t aware that you liked him so much. I personally never liked his smell.”

Dany’s violet eyes burned with rage, but she kept her composure.

“I told you to keep order, not to butcher half of the nobility,” she explained and gritted her teeth. “Tell me, how did Reznak prove himself a traitor? Is there evidence beyond a confession brought forth through torture?”

“There is, your Worship,” the Shavepate confirmed, a  satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Two innocent mouths confirmed is treachery. He has been serving the Sons of the Harpy as do nearly all noble families of this city, among them the Green Grace and our dear friend Hizdahr.”

None of this was a surprise. Not even to Dany or at least that is what Jon deduced from her detached demeanor.

“And who are these two innocent mouths you are talking about?” Dany asked, her voice filled with foreboding. “One of the child hostages?”

“Indeed,” the Shavepate confirmed and bared his teeth. “The Green Grace’s kin gave me the truth. Sadly, one of them didn’t survive.”

Jon didn’t know if he should feel impressed or disgusted. The Shavepate was no common man. He was a butcher and even that was too kind of a term for him.

And even so, he had served Dany more loyally than any other person in this city. Without him they might have never found out the truth about the Harpy.  Killing him for doing his work would be downright silly.

“You tortured her kin?” Dany asked, her voice taking a dangerous tone. “I never told you to do anything like that…,” Dany trailed off and brushed her hand over her face.

“You told me to keep order,” the Shavepate defended himself, his dark gaze meeting Jon’s. Ser Barristan loomed right next to him, his blue gaze sad and distant. He seemed displeased by the Shavepate’s actions.

Jon felt suddenly like a freak, a terrible fear taking hold of him _. Why do I not care? Am I turning into a monster? Has Astapor numbed my heart?_

“Were the men you beheaded all Harpies?” Jon asked instead, trying to forget this disturbing realization.

“Not all of them,” the Shavepate explained, a hopeful expression taking hold of his ugly face. “Some were just supporters. Even so, the Harpy is still alive and there are many more of her sons residing in this city, which is why the Green Grace and Hizdahr yet live. As you can see, your Worship, my actions were reasonable and served to fulfil your order. Surely, that means I can keep my head?”

Dany had listened in silence, her violet eyes filled with suppressed anger.

Seeing this, Jon decided to intervene. “He is not wrong, Daenerys. And if it is true what he says then we finally have the information we have been seeking for.”

Dany gave him a speechless look, but soon regained her composure.

“Very well,” Dany said with obvious displeasure. “What did the Green Grace’s kin say? And who of the two children perished to gather this information?”

“The girl yet lives,” the Shavepate replied without emotion. This time, Jon felt a hint of disgust. The Shavepate spoke about the boy as if he had crushed a mere beetle. “The boy told me that the Green Grace has been intentionally trying to gain your trust and pressure you into marriage with our friend Hizdahr. They then planned to murder you. Raznak was also aware of this plot. I killed him to keep my findings secret.”

“Of course,” Dany added and bit her lip. “Reznak was most enthusiastic to see me wed. Tell me, who do you think is the Harpy? The Green Grace or Hizdahr?”

“Does it really matter?” the Shavepate asked and chuckled in amusement. “You are going to kill them, are you not?”

“Hizdahr is only one man, but the Green Grace is a religious figure,” Dany explained. “Killing her might cause an uproar. Even those not supporting the Sons of the Harpy might join their side if I kill her. It would end in a horrible butchery. I don’t want to risk it.”

“It will happen anyway,” Jon countered. “The freedmen are our only allies in this city, Daenerys. It is only a matter of time until the other inhabitants will rise up against you.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Dany asked in distress. “Butcher the entire city?”

“No,” Jon returned flabbergasted. He had been surprised by her sudden outburst, though he had noticed how tense she had been since they had left Yunkai. “Of course not.  I just think you should start thinking of the future. You told me that you want to leave Meereen to re-take the Iron Throne, but you can’t do that as long as the Sons of the Harpy continue to exist.”

“I have to agree, your Grace,” Ser Barristan added. “And this piece of information should serve us well despite the disgusting way it has been obtained.”

“It will,” the Shavepate assured her. “Would you care to hear my suggestions, your Worship?”

“Tell me,” Dany confirmed, though the expression on her face told him otherwise.  _She wants to cut off his head_.

“Hizdahr will soon seek you out,” the Shavepate explained and smiled again. “And I think you should offer to sponsor his pit fighters.”

Dany’s face darkened.

“Sponsor his pit fighters? Why would I do that?”

“To give him a false feeling of security,” the Shavepate explained. “And is only natural that you would want to celebrate your grand victory, but in truth it will be a trap…to lure the Sons of the Harpy from their hiding.”

“It is not a bad idea,” Jon added hesitatingly and searched Dany’s gaze. “The nobles will be angered by your victory. Some of them might be desperate enough to attempt something…,” he trailed off when Dany’s violet eyes met his.

“And then we will kill them all in one swoop,” she summed up the plan. “Is that what you are trying to say?”

Jon remained silent and the Shavepate nodded his head approvingly.

“It is a dangerous plan,” Ser Barristan protested. “We shouldn’t endanger your life in such a manner, your Grace.”

Dany bit her lips and contemplated Ser Barristan’s words further. She looked torn and Jon felt the urge to comfort her, but this was not their bed chamber, but court.

Thus, he waited until Dany had made her decision.

“I shall call for Hizdahr on the morrow.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: JonCon


	29. Ghosts

**Griff**

They had waited for a whole day before they finally received an answer from the Queen’s advisor, a certain Shavepate, who informed them that the Queen would see them in two days. Aegon had been displeased to hear this, but Lemore had managed to calm him down by reminding him that Daenerys Targaryen might need some time to process the fact that her nephew was alive and well. Aegon had been reassured by her words, but Griff knew how impatient the boy was to meet his only living relative. He had always been well-cared for, but he had been a lonely boy with no other children to keep him company. More than once he had pleaded with Jon to take him to his Aunt and Uncle, but every time he had been forced to disappoint his King as it would have been far too dangerous to seek out Princess Daenerys and Prince Viserys Targaryen. Keeping all Targaryen in one place would have made it easier for the Usurper’s swords to find Aegon.

Griff had also asked Aegon to stay away from the first meeting with his Aunt, but his King had protested again, explaining to him that only a King could treat with a Queen. The Halfmaester, Lemore and Duck had all agreed with him and thus Griff had accepted his King’s command with much teeth-clenching.

Even now, Griff felt tense when he thought about meeting Rhaegar’s sister as he had heard quite troublesome tales about that girl. She had been wed to a Dothraki horselord, she had supposedly woken three dragons form stone and she had managed to conquer Slaver’s Bay. Such a girl couldn’t be some obedient maid. Sadly, an obedient and fertile maid was what Aegon needed if he wanted to re-establish the Targaryen dynasty. Yet Jon feared that Daenerys Targaryen was neither of these two things. Her Lady Mother Queen Rhaella had not been a very fertile woman and Griff doubted the horselord left the Princess untouched. The reason they had need of her was to prove Aegon’s legitimacy.

The sky was blood red when the captain of their ship had his sailors row them to the shore. The city of Meereen was magnificent to behold and made Aegon gasp with wonder. Its walls were as colorful as a rainbow and the pyramids looming in the distance must be nearly as tall as the Sept of Baelor. King’s Landing and the Red Keep were nothing compared to this city.

It made him almost feel as if they were beggars, though they had donned their finest clothing and were bringing gifts and a promise to bring the Golden Company to Daenerys Targaryen’s cause.

They also had two hostages to offer: The wicked dwarf of Casterly Rock and the Stark girl.

“Where do you think are the dragons?” Aegon asked as he searched the sky. The curious expression on his face made him appear younger than his years.

Griff felt the urge to remind him who he was, but his fondness for the boy held him back. Especially, when said such child-like things Griff couldn’t help but to be reminded of his Silver Prince, though the boy showed little resemblance to him apart from his coloring.

 _His blood was soiled by his Dornish mother_ , Jon knew, but quickly banished these thoughts away. _The boy’s mother was dead and gone._

“Dragons are dangerous beasts, your Grace. I doubt she allows them to roam freely..”

“I am sure she is going to introduce us,” Aegon replied with obvious disappointment and shifted his attention back to Lemore, who was seated on the other side of the small row-boat, her gaze fixed on the green waters blow. Next to her sat the ugly dwarf and the Stark girl. As always, the dwarf was drinking away his worthless life while the girl was much like Aegon, her large blue eyes watching everything with great interest.

“Of course, your Grace,” Griff confirmed and kept his true thoughts to himself. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt a strange foreboding when it came to Daenerys Targaryen.

 _If she was pleased to see us she would have called upon at once_ , Jon was convinced and brushed his hand over the hilt of his sword.  _We must be careful._

“Good,” his King said and frowned. “I just wished we brought the Golden Company here. It feels as if I am coming with empty hands.”

“That is not true,” Jon countered quickly. There was no time for doubts. “You are offering her to be your Queen and the most disciplined sellswords company in Essos. There is no greater honor.”

“She is already a Queen in her own right,” Lemore added thoughtfully. “I think it would be best we if we treat her as such.”

Griff couldn’t help but to scoff. “The girl was never supposed to be a Queen. Illyrio should have waited a while longer to wed her to the Khal, but he allowed this fool Viserys to speed up their plans. Aegon was supposed to save her.”

The Septa seemed displeased with his answer and fisted her skirt.

“Aegon is the rightful King,” she replied and graced the boy with a soft smile. “But Queen Daenerys hatched dragons. Aegon the Conqueror was only able to take the crown because he had such dragons. Why should she take a husband who is going to expect obedience from her when she could rule in her own right? I know you understand little about women, my Lord, but some of us are not satisfied to kiss our Lord husband’s feet and bear his children, especially when we have experienced the taste of freedom.”

Griff’s mood darkened even more, but that was no surprise. The woman had been like a mother to Aegon, but her bluntness had always bothered Griff.

“What do you want Aegon to do?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Kiss her feet and beg her to make him her lord husband?”

“No,” the Septa replied calmly. “But Aegon should treat her as his equal and must make clear to her that he can be of help to her. Instead of demanding her heart he should try to win it.”

“He is a King,” Griff grumbled and was about to speak more of his thoughts to the Septa, but Aegon cut him off.

“I shall do that,” he promised with  as smile. “I shall win her heart.”

Then, he turned to Griff and touched his arm.

“Be at peace, my Lord. No more quarreling.”

Griff sighed deeply and noticed that the dwarf was laughing.

“You should listen to your King,” the dwarf mocked and Griff felt the urge to throw him into the river, but was held back when he noticed that they had arrived at the shore, where they were greeted by a good hundred Unsullied and a face Jon Connington hadn’t seen in sixteen years.

Ser Barristan the Bold.  _Another traitor._

“I am here to meet the man who claims to be Prince Aegon Targaryen,” Ser Barristan explained, his deep blue gaze sweeping over them.

Griff tensed when his eyes fell upon him, but there was no reason to deny the truth.

“Your eyes do not betray you, Ser Barristan,” he confirmed grudgingly. “It is me, Lord Jon Connington, formerly the Lord of Griffin Roost. I am surprised to find a traitor severing Queen Daenerys.”

If Ser Barristan was angered by his words it didn’t show on his face.

“The Queen forgave my treachery,” was all he returned and exhaled deeply. “It surprises me that you are still alive, my Lord. The rumors said that you drank yourself to death.”

“These rumors were false,” Lord Connington returned coldly and touched Aegon’s shoulder, who had  been watching Ser Barristan with wide eyes. “As was the belief that Prince Aegon perished on the day King’s Landing fell.”

“So I have heard,” Ser Barristan confirmed and shifted his attention to Aegon and the rest of their entourage. “But it surprises me that Prince Aegon travels in company of a Lannister and Lady Sansa Stark.”

Aegon paled visible when he heard that, his head snapping around to look at Sansa and Tyrion.

Griff felt the urge to strangle the old fool. He had blown their cover, but then Griff had never expected to find the traitor here in Meereen.

It felt also wrong, so very wrong, but there was nothing he could do to change the reality at hand.

“Is it true?” his King demanded to know. “The dwarf is a Lannister and the girl is a Stark?”

“I fear so, your Grace,” Jon replied and jerked his head at Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister. Lemore was looming next to them, her face unnaturally pale as she stared at the Stark girl. “Illyrio thought that keeping them with us could serve our cause.”

“He is a Lannister!” his King snarled. “They killed my mother and the girl…she is the daughter of a traitor…,” he was about to continue, but Ser Barristan interrupted their conversation. He seemed impatient to move on.

“I am also a traitor,” Ser Barristan informed him. “Even so,  Queen Daenerys took me into her service. It would not surprise me if she would be pleased to meet Lady Sansa Stark.”

Jon felt even more confused, but he was impatient to see this meeting done.

Thus, he patted Aegon’s shoulder.

“You heard, Ser Barristan. Your Aunt awaits us.”

 _I shall protect him from all harm_ , Griff swore and watched his King closely as they walked over the large plaza spreading before the largest of the pyramids.

Aegon was dressed in finery, his crimson cloak beautiful to behold, but when Griff laid eyes on his silver hair he realized that he lacked a crown.

It made him wonder if Daenerys Targaryen would sport a crown, but he brushed these thoughts away before they could poison his mind.

Next came a massive stone gates, which was opened by the Unsullied’s able hands, before they were allowed entrance into a long corridor of black marble. Along the path he noticed golden carvings and a good dozen of torches filling the darkness with light.

They walked and walked and with every step Griff felt more tense. Lemore seemed to share his feelings, for her face was still as pale as marble, her eyes fixed on the dwarf and the Stark girl.

 _She must think them a danger_ , he was convinced. The woman was often too blunt for her own good, but she had never done anything to endanger Aegon.

Only Aegon seemed unaffected. He had been utterly silent until they reached the next door. It was made of pure gold and carved with foreign beasts.

Again they had to wait before the Unsullied opened the gates for them.

Jon sucked in a deep breath as his King stepped through the parted doors and disappeared in the stream of bright light falling through the narrow windows filled with golden glass.

When his eyes had finally adjusted to the golden light, he lifted his head and found a broad staircase leading up to a dais made of the same black stones as the walls of the pyramid. Next to the dais stood two high pillars that held the pink marble walls and beneath it he found a wooden chair and the girl Queen that was also Rhaegar’s sister.

On a cushioned seat sat a sun-kissed girl, who gave her Queen’s titles, yet Griff’s restless mind didn’t allow him to register all of them as he had used his time to take in the people that surrounded Rhaegar’s sister.

There were three Dothraki and an ugly man with Ghiscari looks that Jon identified as the Shavepate and another young man that looked very Westerosi.

He had a long face that was framed by plain brown hair and a pair of two dark eyes that were fixed on Aegon.

His expression could only be described as cold, but when his eyes darted to Sansa Stark his façade cracked. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly, a stunned expression taking hold of his long face.

Yet he remained where he was, his eyes remained fixed on the girl.

 _Does he know her_ , Jon wondered but had had no time to sort his thoughts as Aegon had stepped forward to greet his Aunt.

“I Prince am Aegon Targaryen,” he declared with an open smile. “The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. It is my pleasure to finally meet you, dear Aunt. I have long wanted to meet you.”

Rhaegar’s sister didn’t return his smile, her deep violet eyes narrowed in obvious discomfort as her gaze fell upon Aegon.

“Is that so?” she asked briskly. “Pray tell me then, where were you while my brother Viserys and I were begging on the streets, dear nephew?”

Griff should have expected such a question, but it seemed Aegon did not.

He paled a little and his smile faltered. Griff knew it was time to step in.

“We couldn’t seek you out, your Grace,” Griff explained. “All of us together would have made it easy for the Usurper’s swords to find us. If you wish to blame someone then it should be me.”

“And who are you?” she asked, her deep violet eyes brimming with anger. “My nephew’s wet-nurse?”

 _How dare she_ , Griff thought, anger stirring inside him.  _The girl is worse than I feared._

“This is Lord Jon Connington,” Aegon added suddenly and stepped closer towards the pyramid, his gaze unflinching as he searched his Aunt’s face. “A loyal friend to my father Prince Rhaegar and the man I owe my life. I must ask you to show him more respect, dear Aunt. He is a good man.”

The girl’s features softened a little and she bit her lips in displeasure, before she shifted her attention back to Aegon.

“Well, then,” she said and lifted her chin. “Why did you come here, nephew?”

“To bring you gifts,” Aegon replied more confidently. “The Golden Company and the crown of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“The Golden Company,” the girl repeated, an even colder expression taking hold of her beautiful face. “Why should they follow a Targaryen? When my brother asked for their help he was mocked as the Beggar King.”

“I wasn’t there,” Griff tried to explain, but Aegon cut him off.

“I must ask for your forgiveness, dear Aunt,”  _his King declared much to Griff’s displeasure_. “What you say about the Golden Company is true, but there are no Blackfyres left and many of these men long for a home.”

“That is so,” Griff added once more and pointed at the rotten dwarf and the Stark girl. “And the Golden Company is not our only gift.  The dwarf is Tywin Lannister’s son and the girl is Lady Sansa Stark.”

The girl Queen’s eyes widened in surprise, but the young man at her side finally moved, a trembling smile curling on his lips as he stumbled down the steps towards the Stark girl.

He looked like a drunken fool, but his Queen made no attempt to stop him.

“Seven Hells! Sansa…,” he stuttered and came to stand in front of the girl. “What are you doing here?”

“King’s Landing was sacked by Stannis Baratheon and I was forced to flee in company of Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys,” the girl whispered, her blue eyes wet with tears, though she made no attempt to step closer towards the young man. The young man, whoever he was, looked equally helpless, his fist opening and closing as he was taking in this new piece of information.

“It is true, Lord Snow,” Tyrion Lannister added with obvious amusement. “My father is dead. So is my sister and Joff. At first, I did not know what Lord Varys intended for me, but now I have a very good idea…It seems we are meant to be hostages.”

“Sansa will be no hostage,” the young man snarled and gave Lord Connington a threatening look. “I will make sure of that.”

Griff didn’t believe his ears. This bastard was speaking to him as if they were equals.

That the Queen had remained silent was even more surprising and only helped to add to the bad impression he had of her. No true Queen would allow a lowly bastard to address a Lord in such a manner.

“Who is this boy and how do you know him, my Lady?”

The girl’s eyes widened in shock. It felt as if Jon had woken her from a dream.

“He is my brother, Jon Snow.”

That explained it. The boy was Eddard Stark’s bastard.

Griff felt suddenly very sick, his gaze flickering from Aegon to Rhaegar’s sister.  _The girl is more foolish than I thought. Her court is filled with traitor’s blood. First Ser Barristan and now this Jon Snow. What madness is this?_

“I fear you are mistaken, my Lady,” Rhaegar’s sister added softly and graced the girl with a sad smile. “Jon isn’t your brother, but your cousin. It must be a surprise to you, but his mother was no commoner, but the Lady Lyanna Stark, and his father was my dear brother, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The Stark girl gasped, but Griff felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head.

His first urge was to deny what Rhaegar’s sister had revealed to them, but another part of him was trying to recall the blurred memories from the time before the Rebellion.

Prince Rhaegar ran away with Lyanna Stark and was gone for near a whole year. It was not impossible that he fathered a child on her. 

“But…,” Sansa Stark stuttered and clutched her chest. “I cannot believe that father would lie to us.”

“He claims he did it to protect me,” this Jon Snow replied, his voice laced with obvious anger. “But it is true. I am only your cousin. Nevertheless, I shall protect you and bring you home.”

“So shall I,” Rhaegar’s sister added with a smile and shifted her attention back to Griff and Aegon. “Do you hear? Sansa Stark shall be my guest…the same goes for you, Lord Connington and Prince Aegon…to give you time to acquaint yourself with everything you have heard today…,” she continued, but Aegon interrupted her.

“I am King Aegon,” he corrected her stiffly and turned around to regard this Jon Snow more closely. “And I am her nephew. What proof do you have that you can claim the same? You look nothing like a dragon.”

Surprisingly, Jon Snow remained relatively calm.

“I have no proof beyond the word of Lord Eddard Stark,” he explained humbly. “And to be honest I do not care if you believe me. Daenerys’ belief is more than enough for me. Still, if you are truly my brother, then I shall be pleased to know you.”

“Half-brother,” Jon added while Aegon remained silent. “And a bastard too.”

“That is not so,” Daenerys Targaryen countered quickly. “Rhaegar supposedly took Lady Lyanna as his second wife. That makes Jon a Targaryen or at least it does according to my views.”

“That cannot be true,” Aegon protested vehemently. “My mother would have never shamed my mother for the Stark girl!”

“He did,” Jon Snow confirmed curtly. “Whether you like it or not. I know it is hard to accept, but it is the truth.”

Griff swallowed hard. It hurt but, it was certainly possible. 

Prince Rhaegar’s marriage to Princess Elia had never been particularly affectionate and his Silver Prince was the kind of man who would wed a girl he fell in love with. He had been such a dreamy and idealistic man.

Even Elia Martell’s existence wouldn’t have changed that. Not that Griff cared about that woman. Weak and fragile as she was should have never been a Prince’s wife. The Princess’ mother had lied well to hide the truth from the King’s eyes, but Princess Rhaenys’ birth had revealed them for what they were: A house of vipers and liars.

Yet he could never bare these thoughts to Aegon. He was fond of Princess Elia’s memory.

And there was a more pressing issue at hand.

Rhaegar was supposed to have only one living son, not two.

 _The boy is a danger_ , was all he could think, though his heart clenched at the thought.  _For Aegon and his claim to the throne._

“That is a lie,” Aegon insisted and would have probably said something rude, but Griff pulled him backwards.

“It is certainly possible, your Grace,” Griff confirmed. “It is well known that your father ran away with the Stark girl and to be honest…about your mother…the Prince and Princess Elia rarely spoke to each other beyond courtesy. Theirs was a marriage of duty.”

“And you are not lying to me?” Aegon asked him and freed himself from his grasp. “Tell me!”

 Griff felt compelled to lie, but that would be mistake. They couldn’t afford to earn themselves the wrath of Rhaegar’s sisters who seemed to believe the boy’s words.

“It is true,” Septa Lemore interrupted their exchange and stepped forward, her gaze flickering from Rhaegar’s sister to the boy Jon Snow. “Jon Snow is Rhaegar’s son.”

Griff couldn’t believe his eyes. He had known Lemore as long as Aegon, but he had never seen her like this: her grey eyes swimming with tears. 

“How can you be sure?” Aegon asked Lemore, his gaze softening when he saw her tears.

Lemore smiled sadly.

“Because I am Lyanna Stark.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JonCon's views about Elia Martell are not my own.  
> I ship Rhaegar and Lyanna, but I do not dislike Elia Martell's character. She was a poor woman who didn't deserve her fate, though neither did Lyanna and Rhaegar.  
> The only people I find bothersome are her creepy fans who portray her as if she was some holy matyr and Rhaegar as the evil husband who cheated on her because of prophecy.
> 
> I personally think the prophecy was only part of the reason. Rhaegar most likely loved Lyanna and married her because he wanted. Mayhaps he used the pophecy as a justification, but I am sure that Rhaegar was no cruel man. A fool maybe, but no cruel man.
> 
> And to put things a bit in perspective: Elia Martell was not forced to marry Rhaegar. According to the books she had several suitors before Rhaegar which indicates that she had a choice. The fact that she refused each of them despite being known for her fragile health (Which would certainly be seen as a deficiency in medival times) indicates to me that she was a confident woman who knew what she wanted and wed Rhaegar for the same reasons Cersei wanted to wed him. She wanted to be Queen and probably held ambitions of her own. I do not believe that the sister of Oberyn Martell would be some abused housewife who took shit from anyone. And she most likely what kind of a person Aerys was. Her Uncle served in the Kingsguard. She knew what she was getting herself into. Rhaegar was to blame for not sending her to Dorne before Aerys could turn her into a hostage, but she certainly had a mind of her own. I do not think Rhaegar forced her to have kids either. She most likely wanted because she must have known that she was expected to give Rhaegar heirs.
> 
> And while she gave Rhaegar one son, this would not be enough. Babes die all the time which is why I do not judge Rhaegar for wanting more children to secure an already declining dynasty.
> 
> The way he handled it was stupid, but the intent was not wrong.
> 
> That is all.
> 
> And I recently started rewatching Rome. Such a good show...I am still hoping for a sequel.


	30. Explanations

**Daenerys**

The hall of pink marble started to spin before her eyes while the woman’s words continued to echo in her ears.

Sucking in a deep breath Dany closed her eyes for a brief moment and grabbed the handle of her wooden seat.

This is utter madness, she thought, forced her eyes open and swept her gaze over these strangers. There was this Lord Connington who claimed to be her brother’s friend. There was this silver hair boy that claimed to be another nephew of hers. There was the fucking son of Tywin Lannister and of course Jon’s sister…no, cousin. And at last, there was Lyanna Stark disguised as a Septa. Utter madness.

Dany could neither speak nor form a proper thought as she instinctively sought Jon’s gaze. He looked as if he had turned to stone, his face unreadable.

It Lord Connington’s angry voice that roused her out of her stupor.

“Is this some bad jest?” the elderly man asked the woman that was supposedly Lyanna Stark. “Lyanna Stark has been dead for more than seventeen years!”

The woman nodded her head, her gaze still fixed on Jon.

She looked pale and trembled visibly.

“I don’t think she is lying,” Sansa Stark added fearfully, her large blue eyes fixed on the woman that claimed to be Lyanna Stark. “I noticed it before. She looks a bit like my little sister Arya…they have the same eyes.”

“And the story you told me,” the dwarf added with a contemplative look. “It makes all sense now. I suppose Lyanna Stark’s abduction was a lie?”

“It was no lie, but a misunderstanding…,” Lyanna Stark began, but Lord Connington interrupted her, before she was able to explain her reasons.

“Why are you here, woman? Why would Lord Dayne send you to us?”

“I wanted to help….that is all…,” Lyanna Stark tried to explain, but Aegon’s shaking head silenced her at once.

“That must be a lie,” the boy stuttered helplessly. He looked as if someone had pulled away the rug beneath his feat. “Why would Lyanna Stark want to help me? You stole my father away from my mother!”

“I didn’t steal Rhaegar,” Lyanna Stark countered quickly, her voice laced with a hint of defiance. “He acted on his own accord.”

Aegon trembled from head to toe. “Then, it is true?”

“It is true,” Lyanna confirmed firmly, but her gaze was no longer resting on Aegon, but again fixed on Jon, who had yet to speak a single word.

Dany didn’t blame him for his reaction.  She longed for a moment of peace to gather her thoughts after finding out that her brother’s wife was alive.

Yet for Jon she was so much more.

She was his mother and she looked nothing like Dany had imagined her.

She had a pretty enough face, plain brown hair that was slightly curled at the edge and sharp grey eyes, but otherwise she looked quite ordinary.

There must be a reason my brother loved her, she thought and sought Jon’s attention, but he remained motionless, shaking his head left and right as he met her gaze.

Their eyes met briefly, his grey eyes wide and showing a mixture of anger and sadness.

“I…,” he said and opened his mouth to speak more, but then he fell silent again and fled through the anteroom hidden behind the large silk curtain not far from the stairs.

Dany saw grimace of pain on Lady Lyanna’s face, but Jon’s reaction was to be expected. Jon had told her how much he had wished for a mother. Dany couldn’t even imagine how it would feel to find her own mother alive…

“He needs time…,” Dany began, but her other nephew interrupted their moment.

“So, you have been deceiving me all these years?” he asked Lady Lyanna. “I should kill you for lying to a King.”

“You are no King here,” Dany countered quickly and jerked her head at Lady Lyanna Stark. She needed to speak alone with her. Lord Connington and the rest of his company could wait a while longer. “And the Lady is my guest. I must ask you again, Lord Connington, Prince Aegon, Lady Sansa and Lord Lannister to leave us for now. I want to speak alone with, Lady Lyanna.”

Then, she waved her hand at Missandei. “Would you please take care of our guests?”

The little scribe was quick on her feet and lowered her head in reverence to the guests, pointing her hand on the other side of the room where another door led to a different part of the Pyramid.

“Please come along,” she chirped politely. “This one is pleased to show you the way.”

When they were finally gone from her presence, Dany exhaled deeply and asked of Ser Barristan and the Shavepate to send all petitioners today.

She would need some time to calm herself after this surprise.

“I leave you now, your Grace,” Ser Barristan declared after he had opened the door for her.

His blue gaze was now resting on Lady Lyanna and told her that he was as thirsty for answers as Dany herself.

“Do you care for a cup of wine?” Dany asked partly out of politeness and partly, because she didn’t know how to break the silence between them. “I certainly have need of a cup.”

Lady Lyanna nodded her head.

“I cup of wine might help.”

Dany nodded her head in acknowledgment and filled two cups with wine, before taking a seat at the table.

It was a small chamber, covered with colorful carpets, a beautifully-carved table and a brazier that helped to keep away the chill.

“I never thought I would meet Rhaegar’s sister,” Lady Lyanna mused sadly after she had taken her seat across Dany and lifted her cup to her lips. She took a hesitant sip, before looking directly at Dany. “Let alone find my son here in your company…” she trailed off.

“And I didn’t think I would find my brother’s wife alive,” Dany replied hesitatingly. She didn’t know how to approach her. Should she hate or pity her? She knew too little about her. “Jon believed you died in childbirth.”

“Ned must have told him that,” Lady Lyanna began, but when she noticed Dany’s confused look, she quickly corrected herself. “My brother Eddard must have told my son that I died in childbirth, but since he is here with you my brother must have also eventually told him the truth about his father.”

“He told him the truth about Rhaegar and you, but not that you are alive,” Dany confirmed. “But only after Jon had joined the Night’s Watch.”

Lady Lyanna paled visibly and sucked in a deep breath. She looked as if all air had been knocked out of her slender body.

“Ned did what?” the Lady asked and clenched her teeth, her long face changing to a wolfish expression. “No wonder he came here…Did he break his vows?”

“He did,” Dany confirmed again, before allowing silence to take over. Thus, she was able to watch Lady Lyanna’s face more closely.

Her reaction came promptly.

“Curse you, Ned!” the Lady snapped angrily and slammed her hand on the table, nearly knocking over the cup of wine. “How dare he do this to his own blood!”

Dany had winced at the impact, but the Lady seemed unaffected by the pain, but that was no surprise to Dany. The pain inside her heart was probably much worse.

Thus, Dany waited for a few heartbeats, before she posed the next question.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” Dany replied and searched Lady Lyanna’s face. “But why are you not with Jon?”

The Lady’s expression softened immediately and rubbed her face with the palm of her right hand, before finally answering Dany’s question.

“I should have done that…,” she admitted in a trembling voice. “But I was afraid. You have to understand…While it is true that I didn’t die from childbirth, I wasn’t in the best state after my son’s birth. I suffered from a bout of childbed fever that I only survived because Ned brought me to Starfall. It took weeks before I woke from my slumber and by then Ned had sent my son to Riverrun. ‘For his own safety’ he had told me,” she trailed off and inhaled deeply, before bringing the cup back to her lips.

She drank deeply and closed her eyes while Dany was given enough time to absorb this new piece of information.

Dany didn’t know much about Eddard Stark, but what little she had heard of him was influenced by her brother’s, Ser Barristan’s and Jon’s tales. Viserys had called him the Usurper dog, Ser Barristan had called him a misguided, but honorable man and Jon had called him a liar.

Dany herself could not say which opinion she favored, but she couldn’t help but to feel anger towards a man who would take a child away from his mother, no matter how good his intentions were.

“And then?” Dany asked after Lady Lyanna had finally lowered her cup. “What did you do?”

“I was furious,” Lady Lyanna replied and brushed her hair out of her face. It was not longer than her small finger, but the fringe always fell back into her face. “I asked my brother to return my babe to me, but he refused. Ned was always a stubborn person, much like myself and perhaps he was not wrong to think I would do something stupid, but even so…I cannot help but to hate him for it…,” she continued to explain, her voice suddenly failing her.

Lady Lyanna’s breathing had grown labored and tears were glimmering in her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away before they could roll down her cheeks.

Once, she had regained her composure she continued to explain.

“After what happened to my father and brother…It is understandable that Ned was upset with me, but the price he wanted me to pay for it was too high, even if it meant that I could have occasionally gotten a glimpse of my babe if my brother granted it,” she forced the words over her lips. “His price was that I would wed Robert and redeem myself.”

The thought was sickening. Dany had always feared the Usurper, but to wed a man who murdered her lover. It was unthinkable.

“And that is why you left?” Dany asked in return. “Because your brother expected of you to open your legs to the Usurper?”

“Usurper,” Lady Lyanna replied, a dry chuckle leaving her mouth. “You hate him as much as Aegon.”

Dany was surprised that she would say something like that.

“Of course, I hate him,” Dany replied.  “He murdered my brother! Don’t you hate him as well, my Lady?”

“I didn’t hate Robert at first,” Lady Lyanna admitted. “I just didn’t want to marry him. He thought himself in love with me, because Ned told him all kinds of flattering stories about me, but by then Ned hadn’t seen me in six years. I was no longer the little girl I that was sitting obediently beneath her mother’s feet to learn needlework and how to play the high harp. All these years I lacked a motherly presence to form me into the lady my father wanted me to be. Of course, I had my nursemaid and for a brief time I even had a Septa, but most of the time I spent with my brother Benjen and other boys. I learned how to ride and Benjen even showed me how to wield a sword and how to joust. I would have gladly carried a blade if my father allowed it, but that was not appropriate for a lady meant to wed a Lord Paramount. It was our Maester Walys who planted these ambitions into my father’s head, but without my brother’s prodding Robert would have never dared to ask for my hand in marriage. Do not misunderstand me, I have always known that I would have to wed, but I expected that my father would at least choose a man who would show a certain amount understanding for my inclinations. Robert expected some pretty southron girl to bear him heirs, but if he had known my true self he would have surely come to hate me. Ned thought it was because of Robert’s bastard girl, but I never cared about that. I just wanted a man who loved me for who I am, but Ned only ever saw what he wanted to see, but then most people are easily blinded by love. I count myself among them.”

She is not wrong, Dany thought, Lady Lyanna’s words cutting deeper than anticipated. She was in a similar situation with Jon and she often felt as if her affections for him made it hard for her to think clearly…

Yet this was not about her and Jon, but about Lady Lyanna, a woman she felt a strange kinship with.

“I was also sold into a marriage I didn’t want,” Dany added hesitatingly and hoped it would help to bridge the distance between them. “I do not blame you for fleeing from the Usurper. I would have done the same if I had had the strength, but I was only a little girl.”

Lady Lyanna gave her a strange look, but instead of commenting on Dany’s tale she refilled her cup, an awkward silence stretching between them, thought that was exactly what Dany had wanted to prevent from happening.

Dany exhaled deeply and made another attempt.

“Jon said you met my brother at the Tourney of Harrenhall. He crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty, didn’t he?”

Within the blink of a moment, Lyanna Stark’s whole demeanor had changed, a bit of color finally returning to her cheeks.

“Aye, he crowned me and he wanted to wed me,” Lady Lyanna confirmed almost softly. “But I refused him and even chided him for humiliating me in such a manner. I liked Rhaegar, but I didn’t know him well enough to agree to such a match, though I certainly had no intention to wed Robert. I and Benjen always planned to run away together. We wanted to live with the Wildlings…Truly, we were stupid children. Well, I eventually changed my mind about your brother…after Rhaegar proved his affections for me with deeds instead of words…he saved my life.”

That was a development Dany hadn’t expected.

“Your life? From whom?”

“Your father’s men,” Lady Lyanna explained and shrugged her shoulders. “The story about my abduction was not completely wrong, but it were your father’s men who took me, not Rhaegar. He was far away on Dragonstone when he heard of his father’s plan. He left his wife and children to protect me and even went against his own father and King, who most likely saw it as an act of treachery. Not that it matters now. Everything I did after Rhaegar saved me was my own decision. I shouldn’t have wed Rhaegar and I shouldn’t have followed him to Dorne, but I was in love and Rhaegar trained me with the sword, a dream come true. And it wasn’t like Rhaegar didn’t have reasons of his own to hide away. He feared his father’s wrath. Do not misunderstand me, I still love Rhaegar, but I should have come forward when I heard about my father’s and brother’s deaths. Rhaegar disagreed of course and by then I was already with child and even I feared what Robert would do if he found out truth. He was not the kind of man who would forgive such a slight. Thus, I stayed in the tower and waited for my prince…Gods, I was like one of these silly princesses from the songs.  Yet no Prince came to take me away, only my brother who was still licking Robert’s boots after he allowed Tywin Lannister to go unpunished for the murder of Rhaegar’s wife and children. Not only that, Ned and his companions had had also slain my protectors, noble Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent while I was giving birth. I was half dead by then and when I woke again…Ned had taken my child away from me. I was so angry with him…I hated him and wanted to hurt him…what I said were the words of a foolish child…”

“What did you say?” Dany asked.

“I wished death upon Robert,” she replied through clenched teeth and covered her face with her free hand. “And I informed Ned gleefully how I enjoyed every moment in Rhaegar’s bed. I said some more unpleasant things that I shouldn’t have said, but I was stricken by grief and anger. I wanted so very much to hurt him.”

“He took your child away,” Dany countered. “I would have probably done the same. Yet there is one thing I do not understand…Why did my father want to abduct you?”

“Because I was a stupid child,” she explained and smiled sadly. “I dressed up as a mysterious knight to defend a friend’s honor against three squires that dared to hurt him. I should have known better than to draw the Mad King’s attention on me, but I was reckless and thought myself safe. And now everything is lost.”

Dany felt a surge of sympathy for the woman in front of her and felt the urge to comfort her, but she knew  Jon well enough that he wouldn’t be as understanding…

“I shall speak to Jon,” Dany promised her. “Mayhaps I can convince him to listen to you.”

Hope showed on the Lady Lyanna’s tear-stricken face.

“You would do that for me?”

“Not only for you,” Dany explained hesitatingly. “But also for Jon.”

“Jon,” the Lady Lyanna repeated. It was the first time she had said her son’s name. “That was not name Rhaegar had in mind.”

Dany nodded her head in agreement, her heart beating vigorously.

“What name did my brother have in mind?”

“Aemon.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Jon.


	31. Cold

**Jon**

Jon was walking through the darkness of the crypts. Stone statues flanked his path, their unseeing eyes following him at every step. He found king’s with broken crowns. Lords with rusted blades and snarling direwolves sitting at their feet. He found more and more statues, some cracked and crumbling and others still whole and beautiful to behold, yet it were not these statues he was searching for.

The statue he was searching for belonged to his mother. He had seen her often when he and Robb had played in the crypts, but back then he hadn’t know that she was his mother. Then he had finally found out the truth from, namely that his mother hadn’t been just some tavern whore, but a trueborn Lady of House Stark, his Aunt, Lady Lyanna. Lord Eddard had also told him that his mother had died in childbirth, but most importantly, he had implied to Jon that his mother had wanted him.

Hearing about her death had pained him and Lord Eddard’s lie had pained him even more, but knowing that his mother had wanted him had helped to ease the pain in his heart.

 _Even that was a lie_ , he realized as he lifted his torch to see his mother’s face. It was only a stone face and it looked nothing like the woman that had waltzed into his life and had claimed to be Lyanna Stark.

He had only looked at her briefly, but her features had betrayed her Stark blood. Jon and her shared a similar face and her eyes, her eyes were Arya’s eyes and Lord Eddard’s eyes. The slope of her nose had a bit from Sansa and her sharp cheekbones reminded him of Robb.

This woman hadn’t lied, so much he knew, but that didn’t ease the pain in his heart. His mother had abandoned him to help this Prince Aegon, his half-brother, while he had been left rotting in Winterfell to live the life of a bastard.

It hadn’t been the worst kind of life for a bastard, so much he had realized now. He had loved his siblings and most of the inhabitants of Winterfell had liked him well enough, but at the end of the day he had still been Eddard Stark’s bastard. Theon had never called him anything but ‘bastard’ and Lady Stark had wanted him gone out of fear he might steal Robb’s birthright. He had no future other than to join the Night’s Watch or at least that is what he had believed at the time, though the real reason for wanting to join had been his need to prove himself worthy in Lord Eddard Stark’s eyes.

 _Curse him_ , Jon muttered to himself and stepped closer towards the statue of his mother. _And curse you as well, mother!_

Bitter tears began trickling down his cheeks and he quickly brushed them away, but it was no use. His anger was still there, simmering in the pit of his stomach like a volcano ready to burst.

He felt the need to hurt someone. He felt the need to let out his anger, but all he had was this torch.

He lifted the torch, hesitating, ready to give in to his feelings of rage, but the howl of a wolf stopped him…

When he woke he found himself on the stone floor, his face pressed into the rug of the Myrish carpet and the touch of Ghost’s wet tongue brushing over his cheek.

It took Jon a moment to lift his head and to free himself from this unpleasant position. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and pulled himself into a standing position. There, on the small table next to the bed he found the empty flagon of wine and his half-filled cup.

His pounding head was the result of his wine consumption, but it had been the only way to ease the pain inside his chest.

Now he felt even more miserable and was rubbing his temples to ease this feeling of dizziness.

Ghost gave a whimper and brushed his furry head against his arm.

“Thank you, boy,” he thought and patted his wolf’s head. “I am fine.”

This too was a lie, but Ghost seemed to accept it for a moment later he lay back down on the carpet and closed his eyes.

Jon pondered what to do and rose to his feet, bridging the distance to the window. He pressed his head against the golden glass and realized that it was close to dusk.

Hours must have passed since he had fallen asleep, all drunken and miserable.

It also surprised him that Dany had avoided him, but then she had probably found him asleep and didn’t want to wake him.

 _Nobody wants to talk to a drunken fool_ , Jon thought and stumbled towards his bed. It was a kingly bed compared to what he had been used in the Night’s Watch.

It made him wonder what Dany would do now that his half-brother had appeared. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms he was meant to be King.

He was sure that the young man came to wed his Aunt, but Jon resented the idea with every fiber of his being.

Lord Stark had tainted his childhood with his lies. His mother had abandoned him to stay with his half-brother. No, he had no intention to give him Dany as well. That was too much to ask for.

And mayhaps it was selfish to think like that, but then not even his own mother had wanted him. He had tried all his life not to be the wicked bastard Lady Stark believed him to be and even after he had cast away Eddard Stark as his father he had wanted to do right by him. Now he felt only disgust when he thought about the past.

A Stark, that is what he had wanted to be. Now he was a Targaryen or was he not? He doubted his half-brother would want to see the cursed son of Lady Lyanna Stark to be called Targaryen.

And perhaps that was only right, for a mother must be cursed if she left her only child like that.

Still, Dany he couldn’t give up. Not even for his half-brother who had lost his sister and mother to his mother’s and father’s reckless actions.

No, Dany was not a price to be claimed...

“I must speak to him nevertheless,” Jon thought and drew in a rapid breath. He felt suddenly cold and wrapped his cloak around his shoulder as he walked over to the table where one of the servants had left another flagon of wine. Jon was by no means a heavy drinker. His two weeks of debauchery in Volantis had taught him to keep away from too much drinking, but now he felt bored and lost. He felt tired, but he doubted he would be able to sleep without a bit more wine to lull him back to sleep.

Yet when he was about to open the bottle, he was distracted by the creaking sound of the door.

He knew at once that it was Dany. Only Dany would enter his chamber without knocking at the door.

He had instantly stopped his movement and had waited in silence until she had entered. Even Ghost had lifted his head and yawned before continuing to snore softly.

She looked different. Her hair was wet and free from its usual braid. She also wore fresh robes and appeared more hesitant than usual as she closed the door behind her.

Then there was only silence between them. Jon couldn’t blame her. Jon himself didn’t know what to say.

All had been a lie.

Exhaling deeply, Dany bridged the distance and came to stand before him, her slender fingers touching his cheek.

“You have been drinking?” she asked and furrowed her brows. “Did it help?”

“It feels as if someone cracked my skull,” he replied jestingly. “I shouldn’t have wasted a bottle of wine.”

Dany gave him a hesitant nod and lifted herself on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

She was about to pull back, but Jon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, his cheek brushing against hers.

“Jon,” she whispered. “I don’t think…,” she began, but Jon cut her off.

“Can’t we just forget about _them_ …,” he said and closed his eyes, trying to forget his dark thoughts. “I don’t want to think about them anymore.”

Yet Dany seemed to think differently and lifted her head to search his face.

“You can’t just ignore the existence of your mother,” she whispered cautiously and graced him with a sad smile. “I spoke to her.”

Jon should have expected something like that and backed away. It felt almost like a betrayal, but this woman was also Dany’s good-sister by marriage.

“I don’t care to hear more lies,” he couldn’t help but to reply and backed further away, the wall suddenly far more interesting than Dany’s deep violet eyes. “Send her away!”

A moment of silence followed and then he felt her touch on his shoulders, pulling and begging him to look at her.

When he didn’t comply she raised her voice.

“I understand your anger, but you might regret it…,” she began, but Jon felt only more rage surging through his veins,  overwhelming all his reason.

“Don’t presume to know how I feel!” it escaped him abruptly. When he saw her stunned looked he immediately regretted his overreaction.

Exhaling deeply, he brushed his anger away and forced a smile over his lips.

“Forgive me…that was unworthy of me,” he apologized and stretched out his hand to take hers in his own. “I just can’t bring myself to speak with this woman. I am tired of hearing more lies. I just want to forget.”

Dany nodded her head and lifted herself on her toes to kiss him, her mouth parting his lips. This time, he felt a different kind of heat surging through his body.

It was exactly what he had in mind and pulled Dany closer to his chest, his mouth seeking hers and his fingers trying to loosen the complicated bindings of her dress.

“Wait…let me,” she whispered and pulled away, loosening the strings of her dress for him and allowing it to pool around her feet. Beneath her robes she was as naked as her nameday. She must have come to him right after her bath.

Smiling, he pulled off his tunic and discarded his boots. His breeches followed soon after and within the blink of a moment he found himself between her spread thighs.

He kissed her and licked her until she was squirming beneath his touch. Only then did he rise back to his feet and crashed his lips back against hers. Dany seemed just as hungry for his lips and sucked greedily while her nimble fingers touched his cock.

By now he had gotten used to her touch and had enough self-control to not spill on her hand, but even so he felt the heat of his desire surging through his veins.

Kissing her deeply, he rubbed himself against her body, the friction both pleasant and painful.

When her attentions became too much for him to bear, he pushed her back unto the bed. A light chuckled escaped her lips and changed to a gasp when he entered her with one quick thrust.

Soon she was pulling on his shoulder, her legs tightly wrapped around his hips and her lips sucking on his neck.

 _Yes_ , he thought and allowed the pleasure to overtake him. _Yes!_

Dany clung to him as he continued to lose himself inside her, but when he had finally spent himself between her thighs he heard nothing but a soft whimper leaving her lips.

Exhausted, he rolled to the side and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

When he came back to himself expected to feel better, but the contrary was the case.

Nothing had changed. The anger was still there.

“Are you feeling better?” Dany’s soft voice roused him from his misery.

Jon felt the urge to deny the truth, but he decided against it. At least with Dany he wanted to be honest.

“No,” he replied and sat up. “And I shouldn’t have used you for my personal pleasure. It was not very satisfying for you, was it?”

“That’s not important now,” she assured him as she sat up. The furs slithered from her shoulders, but Jon caught them in time and put them back in place.

She smiled sweetly and touched his hand.

“It was no bother for me, but I think you should consider rethinking your decision. I have spoken to your mother and what she told me…it is not as black and white as you think…,” she continued and Jon was about to protest, but Dany’s shaking head silenced him at once. “Let me put it differently. I never had a mother nor do I think she will magically re-appear like yours, but like you I have always longed to know her. And while I cannot understand your pain I think you are going to regret it if you don’t speak to her. I am not saying you should speak to her at once, but do not do something hasty. Take your time and speak to her when you are ready.”

Jon understood what she was trying to say, but the rage inside him made it hard for him to even consider such a possibility.

“You could simply tell me what she told you,” Jon countered.

“No,” she replied firmly, but her voice did not lack warmth as she leaned closer and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I do not think it would be right for me to speak for her. Well, I can tell you this…Your mother had her reasons…reasons even I can emphasize with. It is not going to take away your pain to hear them, but it might make it possible for you to make peace with the past.”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown.

“That is not much and I do not care for her reasons.”

Dany sighed deeply and tightened her grip on his hand.

“Sometimes you are more stubborn than myself,” she chided him sweetly and leaned closer, her warm breath brushing against his lips. “And I cannot force you, but she told me something…She told me your true name.”

Then she smiled and continued. “It is an odd coincidence.”

Jon was confused.

“How so?”

Dany chuckled.

“The name you first used when we met in Yunkai,” she explained. “It is the same name my brother would have chosen for you had he lived.”

Jon was taken back by these words, though the name was quick on his lips.

Aemon. For the Dragonknight he had admired as a boy.

“Aemon,” he repeated slowly as if the name was foreign to his lips. “Why did my father choose this name?”

Dany shrugged her shoulders. “Your mother didn’t tell. You have to ask her yourself if you want to know.”

 _Clever of her_ , Jon mused bitterly and crawled out of bed to pick up his clothing. Mayhaps his act of selfish desire had brought about something positive. His heart was still bleeding, but his exhaustion was gone.

“Where are you going?” Dany asked and watched him as he pulled on his clothing.

“I am going to speak to Sansa and Lord Tyrion,” he explained. “That woman won’t be there I hope.”

“I gave your mother a separate chamber and Missandei is keeping her company,” Dany assured him, her voice laced with worry. “But can’t that wait?”

“No,” Jon replied and turned around to look at her. “We must also speak with Lord Connington and his Prince…my half-brother. Best would be to introduce him to Prince Quentyn. Perhaps during supper?”

Dany gave him an unhappy look. It was clear that she held no liking for them.

“We could do that,” Dany confirmed and addressed the elephant in the room. “And your mother? You can’t ignore her forever, you know? Do you still want me to send her away?”

“No,” Jon replied. “I shall speak to her soon, but first I want to speak with Lord Tyrion and Sansa.”

Dany frowned at that.

“Why would you want to speak to that dwarf?”

“I know him,” Jon replied, but didn’t want to explain the  circumstances of their meeting. “He is the best Lannister I know.”

Dany grimaced at that.

“Then I do not want to know what the worst kind of Lannister looks like.”

“Not so ugly,” Jon replied drily and leaned down to pat Ghost’s head. “The bad ones have beautiful golden hair and brilliant smiles, but don’t fret. Ghost will protect you.”

Dany rolled her eyes.

“You forget my dragons. We should go and see them after you have spoken to your mother.”

“A good idea,” Jon replied and left her at peace to seek out his sister, no cousin, and Lord Tyrion.

He was sure that an observant man like Tyrion could tell him one or two things about his supposed half-brother and this Lord Connington.

…


	32. Brother and Sister

**Sansa**

Sansa couldn’t help but to frown when she saw her reflection in the looking glass.  Her hair had grown a few inches since they had left the Qartheen ship that had brought them here, but it was still not much longer than her small finger. Whenever she was wearing breeches she looked almost like a boy.

_Like Arya_ , she thought, her heart filled with sadness when she thought of her little sister. She had been horrid to her and now she was lost to her forever.

It was no wonder that Jon hadn’t come to see her. Sansa had never shown him much attention since she was old enough to understand what ‘bastard’ meant. She had also been the only one of her siblings who had always insisted on calling her ‘half-brother’.

Arya, Robb and Bran had always given her cold looks for her behavior, but Sansa had wanted to do right by her Lady Mother.

Now she knew better. She had thought herself above others, believing herself a true lady.

And what had been the result of her selfishness? Her father had been imprisoned and their household guard had been butchered like pigs.

This too was a burden Sansa would have to carry until the end of her days.

At least, I can ask for father’s forgiveness, she thought and brushed her hand over the dress she had been given. It was bright green and beautiful to behold.  She had also been allowed to take a proper bath and had been served a supper that had consisted of fresh peaches, olives, bread, cheese and a cup of honeyed milk.

_And Jon. I must speak with him. To ask for his forgiveness and to speak about our Aunt._

Sighing deeply, she paced the room. Back and forth, she walked not knowing what to do with herself as she waited for the servant girl that had told her to wait.

As time was passing by, her mind was shuffling back to the revelations she had been confronted with in the last hours.

Jon was not really her brother, but supposedly the son of her Aunt Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He was a Prince, wasn’t he? She couldn’t quite remember what had been said. Not that it mattered.

What had shocked her was that their Lord Father had lied to them. She knew of course, why he had done it. King Robert would have most likely murdered Jon, even if he was the son of Lyanna Stark, the woman he had claimed to love.

Their father must have felt that he had no other choice, but to hide the truth from her Lady Mother and everyone around them.

That Lady Lyanna Stark was still alive had been another surprise she couldn’t have anticipated. That said woman had been travelling with her all the time made the tale even madder.

_I should have recognized that there is something odd about her_ , Sansa thought. _She has Arya’s eyes._

“Blind fool,” she chided herself and angled her head to look at the door where she found the young sun-kissed girl that was serving the Queen. _Missandei_ , Sansa recalled the girl’s name.

“Did my brother send you?”

The girl graced her with a polite smile and held the door open.

“Indeed, mistress. Jon of Winterfell asked for your presence.”

Sansa felt relieved and stepped out to the hall. The walls were black like the night and glittered like stars when the light of the torches fell upon them. Truly, King’s Landing was nothing compared to the might of the Great Pyramid. It made her feel like a Queen, thought that was another lie. She had been Joff’s Queen, but he hadn’t treated her better than his servants.

_Joffrey was no true King_ , she knew now. _He was a monster._

She passed many winding halls, several servants who barely paid her any attention and two staircases with painted steps, each different from the other, until the girl named Missandei opened a gilded door.

The room was long and the walls were held by massive pillars that were painted in bright blue, yellow and red. The table was just as long and black and polished like a looking glass.

Seated at said table was Lord Tyrion Lannister.

He looked much better than the last time she had laid eyes on him. His hair was washed and combed, his beard was shaved and he was garbed in a clean tunic, breeches and boots that could only fit a small child. He also smelled much better, but as expected there was a flagon of wine and a cup placed beside him on the table.

“My Lady,” he greeted her with a twisted smile. Even in pretty garments he looked ugly. “It pleases me to find you well.”

“It pleases me too,” she replied politely and swept a searching glance through the room. She had hoped to speak with her brother alone to ask for his forgiveness. ”Have you seen Jon?”

“I am here,” Jon’s interrupted their conversation and entered through a door that had been hidden by a black cloth. “Forgive me, for letting you wait, but Missandei told me you were resting.”

“It is no bother,” Sansa replied awkwardly. She didn’t know how to speak to him, though revelation about his birth was not the only reason. Lord Tyrion’s presence was another reason. “It was good to rest. The travel was long and bothersome.”

“Indeed,” Lord Tyrion agreed and leaned back on his cushioned seat. He looked like an ugly child seated on a beautiful adorned throne. “But our grim travelling companion made the travel all the more bothersome. His name is Lord Connington. I think you remember him.”

“I do remember him,” Jon replied and sat down at the table. He looked different from the boy she had known. His face was still long, but older and there were scars lining his jawline and brow. His hair was also much longer and reached way beyond his shoulders. It helped to soften his sharp cheekbones. “But this Aegon Targaryen, my supposed half-brother, he seems a bit more pleasant.”

“His Grace can be a pleasant person,” Sansa offered quickly. “But I think your Queen’s cold greeting upset him. And then there is the matter with our Aunt. It sounds like a mad tale.”

“It is mad,” Jon agreed, his gaze flickering from Sansa to Tyrion and then back to Sansa. “How come you two ended up in their company?”

Sansa sighed and grabbed for one of the empty cups with the intention to fill it, but Lord Tyrion had been faster and was already pouring the sweet red liquid in her jade cup.

“Thank you,” she replied politely and shifted her attention back to Jon. “Our allegiance with them was not something either we planned, but have been forced to agree to. Lord Varys was the only one who offered us a way of escape. Without him we would have probably died.”

“Does that mean Stannis Baratheon is King?” Jon asked, displeasure evident on his face. “Gods, these are bad tidings indeed.”

Sansa was confused and Lord Tyrion chuckled.

“Not what your Queen was hoping for, eh? I suppose my Lord Father would have made a much better enemy.”

“Indeed,” Jon confirmed and picked a grape from the bowl on the table, but didn’t put it into his mouth. “I had hoped to draw Robb to our side once we return to Westeros and that would have been much easier to accomplish if we share the same enemy…the Lannisters.”

Sansa knew what he was trying to say. Jon was now aligned with the Mad King’s daughter. She doubted Robb’s lords would like that, but even so, Robb loved Jon. She doubted he would fight against his own brother as long as his Aunt didn’t threaten his family nor did Sansa believe that Jon would ever allow that.

“Robb will listen to you,” Sansa replied and graced Jon with an encouraging smile. “I know it.”

“I broke my vow to the Night’s Watch after Lord Eddard told me the truth,” Jon replied bluntly. “Robb’s lords will most likely demand my head, sister.”

Sansa was shocked. She hadn’t been aware of that and couldn’t quite believe it.

Jon had always been so quiet and obedient. She hadn’t thought him capable of doing something like that, but then it must have also hurt him to be lied to his entire life.

Sansa didn’t know what she would have done in his situation.

_The selfish thing_ , Sansa thought and recalled with shame how she had told Queen Cersei about her father’s plans of leaving the city. _You are not better than him. You have no right to judge him._

“Robb will not harm you,” Sansa assured him again. “He is your brother.”

Jon’s expression softened.

“Mayhaps you are right,” he remarked and put the grape into his mouth, chewing softly, a thoughtful expression taking hold of his face as she shifted his attention to Lord Tyrion who had just refilled his cup. “But that is not the real reason I wanted to talk to you. I had hoped to find out more about my supposed brother. Do you think he is the real Aegon?”

Lord Tyrion shrugged his shoulders.

“The boy has silver hair and purple eyes, but you can find such a boy in every pillow house. I have also never met Prince Rhaegar and thus I cannot say whether the two share a resemblance. Well, the presence of Lord Connington speaks for him, but apart from that there is not much proof for the boy’s true birth. Gods, even your tale is much more believable to me.”

Jon frowned at that and leaned forward, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders like a river of ink.

Jon had the Stark face, but mayhaps there was something about the fabled dragon prince hidden in the slope of his nose and the straight line of his jaw.

“This Lord Varys that helped you escape, I think Daenerys called him the Spider, sent assassins after her when she was still wed to Khal Drogo. Ser Jorah Mormont told us so much when he was still in her service.”

“Ser Jorah was indeed in the service of the crown,” Lord Tyrion confirmed with a knowing smile. “But eventually stopped giving Lord Varys information on your Queen. We thought he died.”

“He didn’t die,” Jon explained, his voice laced with surprise. “He proved himself a traitor and Daenerys exiled him. Mayhaps that was a mistake.”

Sansa couldn’t help but to disagree. Ser Jorah Mormont had been a slaver. A man like that couldn’t be trusted, but she kept these thoughts to herself.

“Not that it matters now,” Jon continued and frowned again. “But that brings me back to Lord Varys. Why would he help Prince Aegon and at the same time allow this Magister to wed Daenerys to a Khal of the Dothraki? A smart man like Varys would know that it would only bring Prince Viserys many enemies if he brought a horde of Dothraki to Westeros. And now, that Daenerys has dragons he conveniently sends her supposed nephew Aegon Targaryen to her.”

“Lord Varys is a mysterious man,” Lord Tyrion offered in return. “Above all, he claims to serve the realm. Mayhaps he thought by raising this Prince Aegon he could give Westeros a proper King. King Aerys and King Robert both proved huge disappointments in this regard, but that doesn’t mean the boy is really Prince Aegon. As for his sudden interest in the Princess, it was revealed to us only recently that the plan had been to save Princess Daenerys from the Dothraki and make her his wife. That is why I think that Prince Viserys was ever meant to get to Westeros.”

“So much is clear,” Jon confirmed grimly and rubbed his face. This Magister Illyrio and Lord Varys may have manipulated Prince Viserys to wed Daenerys to the Khal, but that doesn’t mean the boy they protected all these years is a pretender. What about Lord Connington? He claims that he knew my father personally. Why should he lie? He seemed very convinced that this Prince Aegon is who he claims to be. Was he perhaps fooled? And then…there is my mother…,” he trailed off and clenched his teeth.

Sansa couldn’t even imagine how he must feel. Sansa had always had a mother who loved her…

“I don’t think she was trying to fool us,” Sansa offered. “She seemed just as convinced as this Lord Connington.”

Jon seemed unhappy with her answer.

He brushed his hands over his face and pondered the situation for a moment.

“What do you think of her?” he asked suddenly. “My mother I mean…,” he trailed off again.

“She was always kind to me,” Sansa replied unsure. “I would like to speak with her. What about you?”

Jon clenched one of his hands to a fist. It was heavily burned and scarred.

“I suppose I will have to listen to her excuses,” Jon muttered to himself.

“She told me a bit about herself,” Lord Tyrion added. “And why she didn’t return to Westeros. Would you care to hear what she told me?”

Jon gave Lord Tyrion a stunned look.

“She told you the truth?”

“Not all of it,” Lord Tyrion replied. “I didn’t even know who she was. I thought she was a Septa that chose the veil to escape an unwanted marriage, not Lyanna fucking Stark. Well, tell me. Do you care to hear what she told me?”

Jon gritted his teeth and gave Tyrion an approving nod.

“Tell me.”

…


	33. Blood Ties

**Lyanna**

Lyanna chose to wear one of the dresses she had received from Rhaegar's sister. 

After living the life of a Septa for sixteen years it felt strange to wear a proper dress. Well, the first five years she had spent in a Sept, a dreary life filled with early mornings, meagre food and prayers. As a child she could have never imagined that she would one day immerse herself in this foreign faith.

In the North they had no need for lavish Septs, the scent of incense and dusty books. No, all one needed to do was sit down beneath a weirwood tree and listen to the whispering of the leaves. In such moments it had been easy for her to forget her sorrows and fears, though her current self had long lost her trust in the gods of her forebearers, or better said the gods in general. She couldn’t imagine that a rotten world like theirs had been created by otherworldly beings. No, she imagined them more like humans. Selfish and driven by their own desires.

 _Like you_ , she reminded herself every day and fastened the dress with a blue sash.  _You chose love over duty. You abandoned your son. Thousands died for your sins…_

 _Duty_ , that was a word she had always hated. It was a word her father had used to justify the match with Robert Baratheon. It was a word Ned had used to justify stealing her son.

And perhaps he was right, but then duty always came easier to men like her brother. In fact, duty always came easier to men. Men could always escape an unhappy marriage by keeping themselves a lover on the side while women had to be chaste.

It was the law of men and gods, a law she had always hated and thus her reckless self had decided to live by her own rules. She had spurned her betrothal with Robert Baratheon and had loved Rhaegar, who had promised her the freedom she had always craved. Oh, it had sounded all so perfect to her younger self. Elia Martell would be his Queen and Lyanna would be his love. That Elia Martell might not have wanted to see her children threatened by hers, hadn’t even occurred to her. She hadn’t cared about the crown. All she had wanted was to get away from Robert and to love Rhaegar.

It had been an impossible dream and mayhaps that had been the reason she had been punished.

Not that it mattered now. The past was gone and all that remained was an uncertain future, a brother that had betrayed her more than she had thought possible and a son that hated her. Even the boy she had raised in his stead hated her now or at least she wouldn’t blame him for doing so. She had after all caused his mother’s and sister’s deaths.

“My Lady,” Daenerys' voice roused her out of her thoughts. Lyanna had taken a seat by the window and had tried her best to tame her mob of brown hair into something orderly. “Am I intruding?”

Lyanna turned around and found Rhaegar’s sister, Princess Daenerys or Queen Daenerys, standing at the door.

She was a true Targaryen, all silver-haired and purple eyed. Even the slope of her nose and the fullness of her lips spoke of Rhaegar’s beauty. It was hard to deny that she was his sister and even harder to deny was that she held affections for her son. Lyanna had spent years as a Septa, but it hadn't escaped her the way the young girl had said her son's name. The cold demeanor she had shown when meeting Prince Aegon had suddenly been exchanged with a girlish softness.

Jon, she reminded herself and couldn’t help but to dislike the name Ned had chosen for her son. It was the name of his foster father as Ned had liked to refer to the Lord Paramount of the Vale, a man that had aided Robert in usurping Rhaegar’s crown. Just the idea of having her son named after such a man angered her. Even so, she couldn’t deny the reality at hand. Jon Snow’s true name may be Aemon Targaryen, but he had lived all his life as Jon Snow, her brother’s bastard. She couldn’t expect of him to just forget about his past life nor could she expect of him to forgive her.

“My Lady,” Daenerys’ broke the silence again. She had come to stand in front of Lyanna, her purple eyes changed to a deep violet color after the bright sunlight had fallen upon her face. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Lyanna,” she replied and rose to her feet. Her smile felt forced, but it was the least she could do after the young woman had shown her nothing but kindness. “You may call me Lyanna if you like.”

Again, this almost childlike expression washed over Daenerys’ face. She seemed pleased with her offer and smiled warmly.

“Then you may call me Daenerys,” Daenerys offered in return and brushed her braid over her shoulder, the bells fastened there ringing softly. “We are after all bound by marriage.”

“I don’t think my son will like that very much,” Lyanna replied and walked towards the door. “In presence of the others I shall continue to call you by your title.”

Daenerys nodded her head in acknowledgement. “If that is what you want. Well, Jon and the others are waiting for us.”

Lyanna exhaled deeply and followed after Daenerys.

_Into battle._

Daenerys had chosen a long hall to conduct her negotiations, though officially it was meant to be an uncoerced meeting between potential allies.

The hall was made from the same black stone as other parts of the Pyramid. The walls were about a hundred feet high and held by thick pillars made from white polished stone. Along the walls she noticed the ever stone-faced Unsullied and a good dozen of scones that held torches to lighten he windowless hall.

On the large table made from some sort of reddish wood, she found both familiar and unfamiliar faces staring back at her.

There were Lord Connington and Prince Aegon on one side of the table and not far from them a young man with sun-kissed skin and dark eyes. His garments looked Westerosi, a doublet made of orange and red cloth.

 _Prince Quentyn Martell,_ she guessed. Daenerys had mentioned him, albeit only briefly.

It disappointed Lyanna that she saw no sign of her niece Sansa and the wicked dwarf she had come to befriend during their travel.

Lyanna avoided to look at the others and followed after her Daenerys, who took her place at the head of the table while Lyanna sat down left from her, though at an appropriate distance.

Jon was seated right from her, but even when Lyanna had turned to look at him, he had avoided her gaze. The serious expression he carried reminded her of her Lord Father, but he also looked a bit like Rhaegar when he was in a particular melancholic mood.

“Why did you bring her?” Aegon’s voice disturbed the silence. He looked upset, his bluish eyes narrowed and filled with anger. “I thought we are going to negotiate?”

“She is my kin through her marriage to my brother Rhaegar,” Daenerys replied, her expression changing back to the queenly mask she had donned during their first meeting. “And my nephew’s mother. I want her to be here. You can accept that or leave, dear nephew.”

Lyanna could scarcely breathe when everyone in the room, but her son, turned to look at her. Jon Connington’s gaze was icy as frost and Prince Quentyn Martell looked as if someone had kicked him in the balls.

 “Are you telling me that Lady Lyanna Stark is still alive?” the young man asked in a shell-shocked tone and searched Daenerys’ face. “First my Aunt’s son…and now Lady Lyanna Stark. Gods, Is this some mad jest?”

“No jest, my Prince,” Lyanna replied and grabbed the cup that had been placed in front of her by one of Daenerys’ handmaids. They were both sun-kissed beauties and dressed in the fashion of the Dothraki.  _Irri and Jhiqui_ , she recalled, but wasn’t sure. Only her little scribe, that was seated next to Jon, wore a dress of the same color as her mistress; baby blue like the Summer sea and held together with a sash of baby pearls. “I am indeed Lady Lyanna Stark. ‘The Northern whore’, as your father liked to call me.”

It was wrong of her to bring that up, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t asked Rhaegar to crown her and had been dubbed a whore. What she had done afterwards should have earned her such a nickname, but not the mere crowning on a tourney.

When she saw the young man’s confused look she sighed and forced a smile over her lips.

“A name I might very-well deserve for my past actions,” she admitted and shrugged her shoulders. Slowly, she lifted the cup to her lips and drank, waiting for Prince Quentyn’s reaction, but again nothing happened. Sighing, she put the cup away and shifted her attention to her good-sister and then to Aegon. “And while I cannot bring back your Aunt and her children I had hoped that by aiding your nephew I can redeem myself.”

This, time her words had finally caused a reaction in her son, for he had finally lifted his head and was looking at her.

 _Grey eyes_ , she realized at once. Her son had her eyes, but she saw also Rhaegar in them. They were black like Valyrian steel, but there was also a hint of purple there, revealed by the torchlight.

Yet, that was all she could tell by looking at his face. His face was unreadable, his lips a thin pale line and his dark eyes icy like the winds of the North.

 “I do not know what to say,” Prince Quentyn stuttered and disturbed their moment. “This is utter madness.”

“Truer words have never been spoken, cousin,” Aegon added, his eyes still narrowed in anger as he met Lyanna’s gaze across the table. He appeared almost like a stranger to her now, a far cry from the cheerful boy she had known. His reaction hurt too, but she had always known that the day would come when she would be forced to reveal her true identity. Yet, she had also hoped that his anger would be eased by the success of regaining his crown and that he would come to accept her real son as his half-brother. _A fool’s dream_.

“And I still don’t understand why the presence of my father’s mistress is of essence for our negotiations.”

“My brother’s second wife,” her Daenerys corrected Aegon quickly. “Our forbearers were known for such practices. I do not see why we should ignore this fact.”

“The practice of polygamy is not legitimate in the eyes of the Seven. It is considered a sin,” Prince Quentyn Martell added almost shyly. While he had just declared Lyanna a whore and her son a bastard, she couldn’t bring herself to dislike the young man. He was of the upright sort, so much she could tell by the blush on his cheek.

“Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, Maegor had several,” Daenerys replied. “The way I see it, the reason the practice became outlawed had more to do with the death of the dragons than my forebearers sudden devotion to the Seven. I have dragons as well, my Prince. I can show them to you if you wish.”

Prince Quentyn Martell paled a little, but managed a polite smile in return.

“It would be my pleasure,” Prince Quentyn replied and lowered his head. “But I must tell you again. Your dragons are not going to change my Lord father’s opinion of your brother’s second marriage. Dorne will never accept it and you shouldn’t forget that Dorne withstood Aegon Targaryen’s dragons.”

“It does not escape me,” her Daenerys replied with obvious displeasure. “But if you want to make our allegiance work you will have to accept certain conditions, dear nephew,” she added and angled her head to look at Prince Quentyn. “As for Dorne, your father’s kingdom is only one of seven. Jon cannot offer me the spears of Dorne, but also has a cousin who loves him…”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” Jon Connington interrupted. “But I doubt Eddard Stark’s bannermen will think the same way. They will only see the Targaryen in him.”

“That may be so,” her son granted in an icy tone. “But that is a risk I have to take, Lord Connington. Still, it would be best if we worked together instead of quarreling like children. You want the crown? Well, tell me, dear brother, what connections do you have to Westeros other than a possible allegiance with Dorne? Do you think that will be enough to convince the rest of Westeros to bend the knee to you? If Stannis Baratheon has taken the crown then it is not unlikely that his brother’s former allies are going to support him. I wonder, who Robb Stark is more willing to listen to. A bastard who spend his entire life in North or some Prince that spent his entire life on a pole boat in Essos?”

Her son’s words had been merciless and Lyanna couldn’t help but to shudder. That her son knew these details about Aegon’s life surprised her as well, but when she saw the expression of rage on his face, she knew that she had to intervene.

“None of us can say what will happen in Westeros,” Lyanna added hesitatingly and angled her head to look at Daenerys and her son. “But I think you ought to listen to my son and Queen Daenerys. Working together would be more beneficial than to quarrel.”

“I do not care about your opinion, woman,” Aegon scoffed and averted his gaze. Exhaling deeply, he lifted his head again and looked at Daenerys. “I came here to speak with my Aunt. You mentioned conditions. Tell me, about them.”

A hint of a smile crossed over Daenerys’ lips and she exchanged a quiet look with Jon, before she named her conditions.

“My first condition is a simple one, I cannot marry you. In fact, I think it would be more beneficial for you to wed another woman of Valyrian blood. Princess Arianne Martell comes to mind. There are others I have heard about, but since Prince Quentyn is here with us it makes sense to bring up such a possibility.”

Lyanna was not surprised to hear Daenerys’ refusal to wed Aegon and only confirmed what she had already suspected. Her son and good-sister were more to each other than Aunt and Nephew. That Daenerys had been sold into a political marriage before, made it even more understandable that she would not consider marrying Aegon for political reasons alone.

Yet, Aegon seemed taken back by her words.

“Why would you not want to marry me?” he asked, his eyes incredibly wide. “You would be Queen.”

“I think I know why,” Prince Quentyn added softly, his dark eyes still fixed on Daenerys. “It has to do with your condition, doesn’t it, your Grace?”

The change in Daenerys’ demeanor was palpable. Her smile had vanished within the blink of a moment.

“I fact I hoped you would keep to yourself, my Prince,” Daenerys replied through gritted teeth and exchanged another telling look with Jon. Lyanna almost expected her to stretch out her hand to touch his arm. “Well, now that Prince Quentyn brought it up, it is hard to deny the truth,” she added tensely. “The truth is…I am most likely barren, thus a marriage between us would most likely not be of use to you, dear nephew.”

“I see,” Aegon said, all anger suddenly washed away from his face, though he looked slightly disappointed. “Well, that certainly complicated the situation. But please tell me, how can you be so sure? Have you been inspected by a Maester?”

“Isn’t it already humiliating enough that she had to tell you about it?” Jon asked, his voice laced with disgust. “What do you want her to do? Have a hundred maesters crawl between her legs to inspect her? If you haven’t noticed, but Daenerys is willing to support your claim, though she has no reason to do so.”

At once’s Aegon’s gaze darkened. “I am her nephew. I am Prince Rhaegar’s eldest son and heir…”

“My _supposed_ nephew that has been hiding away for seventeen years,” Daenerys added crisply. “But let us not speak of the past. I want to speak of the future. What Jon told you is true. While I do not completely trust in your identity I do not wish for another Dance.. I thought it was my duty to retake the crown, especially after my brother’s death, but now I am no longer alone. The game has changed and I am willing to accept that for the sake of peace. The truth is, I am tired of war and I simply want to go home. That said…Are you willing to hear the rest of my conditions?”

“We are willing to hear them,” Lord Connington answered on Aegon’s behalf. “Please tell us about your conditions.”

Daenerys looked weary as she gave the rest of her conditions.

“My second condition is that you are going to yield me Dragonstone. My dragons need a place to live and it is also the place I was born. It is only natural that I want it back.” 

Aegon seemed displeased with this condition, but he nodded his head in silent acknowledgement.

“And your third condition?” Lord Connington asked tensely.

“That you will accept Jon as your brother and allow him to be your heir should you be unable to father sons of your own. I also want you to wed your children to his. This is perhaps the most important condition on my list.”

Aegon’s clenched fists were telling.

“That I cannot do,” he declared coldly and shook his head. “That would besmirch my mother’s memory. Lyanna Stark’s bastard will never be a legitimate member of House Targaryen.”

Then, he lifted his head and looked directly at Lyanna.

“You said that you wish to seek redemption for your past actions. Well, now is your chance, my Lady. Show loyalty to your King.”

Right would be to defend Aegon, but when she looked at her son it felt as if she had lost her ability to speak.

She had abandoned him. She owed him to take his side in this matter.

“A King needs an army and allies,” Lyanna replied in a trembling voice. “Your Aunt made a generous offer to you. You should consider it.”

Aegon scoffed and leaned back in his chair.

“It doesn’t surprise me that you stabbed me in the back. You probably took great pleasure in fooling me all these years.”

Lyanna’s heart clenched at Aegon’s angry tone. Her lies must have hurt him just as much as her son.

“That is utter nonsense, Aegon,” she assured him. “I was just trying to help you and I am still trying to help you, which is why you should consider your Aunt’s generous offer.”

“I have to agree,” Lord Connington interrupted surprisingly. “We will consider your offer, but we will need time for that.”

“That should be no problem,” Daenerys returned politely. “Take as much time as you need.”

Aegon frowned, but Jon Connington’s words held sway over him.

“Very well,” Aegon agreed at last. “I shall consider your offer, Aunt.”

When all was said and done, Lord Connington, Aegon and Prince Quentyn left without having eaten a single piece of the roasted peacock, the ostrich eggs or the spicy carrots nor had they touched the sweet summer wine.

Lyanna didn’t feel hungry either. The angry negotiations and her son’s cold demeanor had stolen her appetite, but even so she decided to speak to Daenerys before leaving.

Her son, ignored her as always, his dark gaze fixed on the colorful tapestries.

“Aegon can be rather hot-headed,” Lyanna explained hesitatingly. “And his anger is meant for me, not for you, your Grace. I shall leave you now.”

Daenerys nodded her head in understanding, her violet eyes quickly darting back to Jon, who was still averting his gaze. She looked as if she wanted to pull on his cloak and drag him to her side, but in the end she remained still.

Instead she sucked in a deep breath and gave Lyanna an apologetic smile.

“I also have my hot-headed moments.”

Lyanna took this as her cue to leave and was about to turn around, but her son’s voice caused her to stop in her tracks.

“My Lady,” he said, but then she shouldn’t have expected more than that. “Lady Lyanna…I think it is time we speak.”

To Lyanna it felt as if time had stopped, the world spinning out of control.

She felt dizzy as she turned around, her legs suddenly wobbly like jelly.

“You can call me Aunt if that is easier for you,” she offered instead and took in her son’s face once more. It was the second time he was directly looking at her. His face was long like hers, but even-shaped like Rhaegar’s. The slope of his nose and the softness of his lips came also from Rhaegar, though his slightly curved brows where all hers. His hair, a plain brown color, reminded her of Benjen, but his dark eyes reminded her again of Rhaegar. At the first glance, he looked like a Stark, but at the second and third glance he looked like his father. Truly, her son was lucky to have been born with her coloring or Ned wouldn’t have been able to hide his identity for long.

Seeing Rhaegar in her son, made the whole situation only harder for her, his dark eyes brimming with resentment.

“That would be a lie,” he replied and pointed his finger at the chair Lyanna had occupied earlier. “And I am tired of lying. I should have called you mother, but I can’t. That is why I will call you Lady Lyanna. Can you accept that?”

Lyanna was surprised that he had asked for her opinion and could only nod her head in acknowledgement.

She wanted to say so much more, but her throat felt incredibly dry and she felt dizzy as well.

Thus, she decided to sit down.

When she had found her balance again she exhaled deeply and shifted her attention back to her son. Daenerys was also there standing beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

If she had needed more evidence for their affection she saw it now.

“I accept it,” Lyanna replied and finally found her voice.

“Good,” her son replied curtly. “Then, we can finally speak. I have recently spoken to Lord Tyrion and he told me things…he said that my Uncle supposedly took me away from you? Is that true or another lie you made up to make yourself feel better?”

Lyanna didn’t know if she should feel glad that the wicked dwarf had lifted a part of her burden from her shoulders.

“It is no lie,” she confirmed and searched his gaze. She wanted him to see that she was honest. “Ned did take you away from me. After your birth I was very sick…the birthing fever. I was unconscious for weeks and when I woke again I was back in Starfall and you were already on your way to Riverrun. Ned did it to protect you from me or that is at least what he told me. I suppose he was afraid I would do something foolish and I wasn’t very forthcoming to him…I said some very unpleasant things to him,” she continued, but her voice failed her when she saw her son’s reaction.

His cheeks were deeply flushed and he was shaking from head to toe.

“Don’t defend him!” he snapped angrily and balled his right hand to a fist. It was ugly to behold, all burned and scarred. “He always loved Robert Baratheon more. He fooled me into believing that the Night’s Watch is an honorable calling. And the fool I was I believed him. I told him so much before I fled from the Wall...”

Then, he paused for a brief moment, probably to catch his breath, and rubbed his face in frustration.

“Even so, I never thought he had it in him to do something like this,” he continued in a strained voice and averted his gaze.

Seeing the tears glittering in his dark eyes broke her heart.

“Ned meant much to you, didn’t he?” she couldn’t help but to ask. “He raised you after all and that is why you are so hurt that he betrayed you.”

His dark eyes flickered back to her. He looked as if she had slapped him and bit his lips.

“He made me believe that I am his son,” he said with obvious contempt. “He made me be believe that he loved me…another lie to fool me.”

“I do not believe that,” Lyanna added to her own surprise, but then she wanted to speak the truth and the truth is that the world couldn’t be easily separated into good and evil. She and Ned had both acted wrongly and the person who had paid for it was her son. “Ned is not cruel by nature. He must have held some affection for you if he allowed you to grow up in Winterfell. He loved me too, at least that is what he claimed, but I suppose the love of a sister is nothing compared to a man he called his brother. And mayhaps that is only to be expected…Ned spent half his life in the Eyrie. Jon Arryn was a true father to him and Robert Baratheon must have been the brother he had always wanted. I and Benjen were almost strangers when we visited him years later. It was then that I first met Robert Baratheon. I thought not much of him, beyond being Ned’s friend, but not long after I was informed by my Lord Father that I am to be wed to this man. I was shocked and angry. I pleaded with Ned to speak to father, but Ned was so convinced about Robert’s love. I suppose that is something we have in common. Ned chose Robert and not _us_.”

“ _Us_ ,” her son repeated and scowled at her. “There is no _us_. We are not the same. You could have stayed, but instead you left to raise my half-brother, this Prince Aegon.”

In her heart she felt that he was right, though he didn’t know the details, the details she needed to give him now.

“Ned wanted me to wed Robert,” she explained. “He wanted me to do my duty. That was another reason he took you. He wanted to force me to agree to the match…a match I could have never gone through with.”

“Why not?” her son demanded angrily, his dark eyes flashing with rage. “You could have done it for me. You would have been Queen and then you could have…,” he stuttered, clearly close to tears and his face deeply flushed.

“Kept you at my side?” Lyanna asked sadly. “That would have been impossible that nor would have Ned risked it. You could have never come south either…someone might have noticed your resemblance to Rhaegar. And what then? Robert would have killed you, but the real reason…the real reason is much simpler.”

“What reason could that be?” he asked, his voice weary and growing distant again.

Lyanna bit her lips and fiddled with the hem of her dress, to do something to delay the inevitable.

“Your birth was very difficult for me,” she admitted and averted her gaze. “The nursemaid told me later that another birth would be even more difficult for me. I admit, I couldn’t bear the thought of birthing Robert’s heirs, but I also didn’t want to go through this pain again. I didn’t want to die. That is why I couldn’t do my duty and ran again.”

“Did you tell my Uncle about your fears?” her son asked, a little softer.

Lyanna turned back to look at him and swallowed hard before giving her answer.

“I did not,” she admitted to her fault. “I thought about it that way... He has never listened to me so why should he listen now? And after he took you away I had lost all trust in him.”

Her son had opened and closed his fist while she had spoken and now he was clenching his teeth while he was probably pondering what to say.

Lyanna felt almost as if she was awaiting for her son’s judgement. Daenerys, who had observed their exchange in silence, looked tense and was gnawing at her plump lips.

“I cannot forgive you,” her son said suddenly and lifted his tear-streaked gaze. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to get to know you. You are my mother…that is a fact and that is something we can build on. Can you accept that?”

Lyanna felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders and for the first time in years she felt hope blooming in her heart.

The answer came easy to her lips.

“That is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

…


	34. The Dragon has Three Heads

**The Dragon has Three Heads**

Prince Aegon and Prince Quentyn were waiting for them by the steps, leading beneath the Great Pyramid.

Prince Aegon and supposedly Prince Rhaegar’s heir, was a young man of gangly build, his cropped hair a pale silver like the Targaryens of old. His eyes were blueish, but at times they appeared to be purple, though that could just by a side effect of Ser Barristan’s worsening eyesight.

He should rejoice over Prince Aegon’s survival, truly he should be, but he couldn’t help but to think that the young man’s arrival would make the current situation even more complicated. By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms this boy would be the rightful heir to the throne and as a former member of the Kingsguard he would be obligated to support him.

That is if this boy was truly Prince Aegon. Lord Connington seemed convinced enough and even Lady Lyanna Stark, who had been Prince Rhaegar’s second wife, seemed convinced of this fact, though the revelation of her identity had led to a quarrel with her former foster-son.

That Barristan felt great affections for Queen Daenerys and Jon made it only more difficult for him to accept this new development without nursing doubts. And while the revelation of his Queen’s condition of barrenness most had shaken his hopes there had been a clear way to the future.

It had all been so simple. Queen Daenerys had planned to find a good match for Jon and help him ret-take the crown.

Now they had two Princes from the same father, though Barristan was not yet completely convinced about the boy’s true birth.

He had known Prince Rhaegar since he was a young babe in his mother’s arms, but this Aegon, while clearly sporting the coloring of a Targaryen, looked nothing like his father. His face was fuller, his cheeks lacked the elegance of Prince Rhaegar and his eyes were the wrong color. Prince Rhaegar’s eyes had been purple and at times dark indigo, but then the reason for his lack of resemblance might lay elsewhere. The Princess Rhaenys’ had also taken after her mother in coloring, but her features had resembled Prince Rhaegar and Queen Rhaella. Mayhaps with Prince Aegon the contrary had happened: he had inherited his father’s coloring while his physical appearance resembled his Dornish relatives. Sadly, Ser Barristan’s memory of his Dornish kin was blurred and Prince Quentyn and Prince Aegon looked as different from each other as the sun from the moon.

That Prince Quentyn had become quite friendly with his supposed cousin in a matter of a short time was also telling.

 _Did he notice some sort of resemblance_ , Barristan wondered not for the first time. _I must speak with him. Later._

He had also felt the urge to speak Jon Connington, but the man would most likely kill him rather than speak to him. Going by his reaction during their first meeting he held nothing but contempt for him.

_He has the right of it. I am a traitor and believed myself redeemed. Now I do not know where to place my loyalty._

“My Princes,” the Queen greeted the Dornish Prince and Prince Aegon. Jon was looming over her like a shadow, his face a grim mask like so often these days. “It is a long way down. Are you certain you wish to do this?”

“If it would please your Grace,” Prince Quentyn replied shyly.

Prince Aegon was less hesitant.

“Of course. I have wished to see your dragons ever since we arrived in Meereen, dear Aunt.”

The Queen winced and smiled tensely.

“Then please come along.”

A pair of Unsullied walked in front of them, holding torches that lightened the darkness around them as they continued to walk down the thousand steps. As they walked the Queen used the time to prepare her guests for her ‘children’.

“I have three dragons. They hatched from the three eggs given to me by Magister Illyrio on my wedding day to Khal Drogo,” she explained. “They supposedly hail from  Asshai.”

“Magister Illyrio gave you these eggs?” Prince Aegon asked in obvious surprise.

“He did,” the Queen confirmed and this would have most likely been the end of the argument had Jon not interrupted them.

“Does that surprise you, brother?”

Prince Aegon winced, but didn’t flinch when he met Jon’s piercing gaze..

“Half-brother,” Prince Aegon corrected him. “And it does surprise me that the Magister gave the eggs to my Aunt instead of me, Prince Rhaegar’s heir. Magister Illyrio and Lord Varys saved my life, but even I have to admit that there is something rotten here. Well, I shall ask them once I have claimed my crown.”

“You will be able to ask them quite soon,” Queen Daenerys added. “Because I intend to conquer Pentos before returning home to Westeros. It is a price I have to pay for the Tattered Prince’s loyalty.”

“A price too high,” Prince Aegon replied pridefully. “I have the Golden Company. They are a hundred times more worth than the Windblown and it will only waste our precious time to conquer Pentos. I also do not think that the Magister will like that.”

“I gave a promise,” Queen Daenerys insisted firmly, but not unfriendly. “And I intend to keep this promise. Now let us move on.”

With these words they had reached the final flight.

The Queen sucked in a deep breath and stepped through the door into a long hall, that lead down to the dragon’s prison.

A loud roar made her stop in her tracks.

Their guests, especially Prince Quentyn, looked alarmed. Prince Aegon simply crossed his arms, his mouth slightly opened as he continued to listen to the dragon’s roar. Jon Snow scowled and watched their guests closely.

“The dragons know when she is close,” Barristan added awkwardly to break the tension.

“Come,” the Queen prodded and led the way.

Two Unsullied opened the large iron doors and they stepped through the door, to stand above the pit.

Barristan had been here a handful of times, but every time he felt jolt of fear surging through his old bones.

He was Barristan the Bold, but the sight of the dragons was something else.

The two beats craned their necks around, staring at them. Viserion, the pale beast, had shattered one chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof like some huge white bat. Rhaegal, was still chained and gnawing on the carcass of a bull. The heap of bones had grown as well and the walls were scorched. It was wise of the Queen to consider freeing them again. It was only a matter of time until they would grow too big for this pit.

 _The pit in King’s Landing should suffice_ , Barristan couldn’t help but to think and watched their guests’ reaction.

Prince Quentyn’s face was pale as fresh-fallen snow and Prince Aegon’s bluish eyes were wide in wonder as he watched the beasts go about their daily business.

“The pale one is Viserion,” Queen Daenerys explained and pointed at the beast. “And the green one is called Rhaegal. I named them after my brothers, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Viserys.”

“And the third one?” Prince Aegon asked. “Where is he?”

“Drogon is hunting,” the Queen replied, a pained expression washing over her face. “I hope he will return after I free his brothers.”

“Why did you lock them up anyway?” Aegon asked. “These beasts need to be free.”

“One of them burned a little child,” Jon added icily. “But as Daenerys rightly said…she will free them soon, after the peace celebrations.”

“Why?” Prince Quentyn asked awkwardly as ever. “Is there a particular reason?”

“The smell of the blood could lure them to the pit,” Queen Daenerys explained and jerked her head at the dragons. “I fear they could harm innocents. I cannot allow that when I am trying to make peace.”

Suddenly, Rhaegal roared, unleashing a current of red flames into the air. Viserion retaliated, unleashing flames of gold and orange.

Prince Quentyn had nearly jumped out of his skin while Prince Aegon had backed away two or three steps, covering his face with his arm. Queen Daenerys had thrown a handful of commands at them in High Valyrian, but they ignored her like so often these days.

Barristan couldn’t help but to compare them to unruly children.

“They are just confused by your presence,” Jon Snow added, his voice laced with mockery. “We must be careful.”

Prince Aegon must have sensed his hostility and gave him a challenging smile.

“They will get used to my presence soon enough. As our Aunt said…the dragon has three heads. One of them should be mine.”

“You…You mean to ride them?” Prince Quentyn asked in shock.

“First you will have to tame one of them,” Queen Daenerys offered in return. She looked tense and exchanged a telling look with Jon. “But you are not wrong. A dragon only bonds with one rider. When I was a little girl I read a book that said that even Aegon the Conqueror would have never dared to mount Vhagar or Meraxes, nor did his sisters ride Balerion the Black Dread. Of course, Balerion the Dread had other riders, but no rider has ever flown two dragons at once.”

“Have you tamed one of them?” Prince Quentyn hesitatingly.

The Queen’s face fell. “Not yet, but one of the three is very dear to my heart. Drogon, the dragon that is gone and will hopefully soon return.”

“Rhaegal is the wildest,” Jon Snow added and jerked his head at the beast. “It is good that he still has his chains or he would have most likely attacked us by now.”

Suddenly, Rhaegal had started to hiss, smoke rising from his nostrils as his head darted towards Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys, only held back by his chains.

Yet, it was no attack, so much Barristan could see by the way the beast kept his mouth closed.

No, instead of throwing flames into the air he leaned his head towards Jon.

The boy looked unsure, but still stretched out his hand towards the beast.

The dragon did nothing, but sniffed at his hand.

Suddenly, he gave another loud roar before returning to his supper.

“Rhaegal was always fond of Jon,” the Queen explained to Prince Aegon. “Which only leaves Viserion for you, dear nephew, though I would refrain from attempting anything until they are freed. They are angry and might even attack their own mother.”

Prince Aegon seemed hurt in his pride and was about to open his mind, but Barristan decided to intervene before the boy did something he would regret.

The boy may be Rhaegar’s heir or not, but even trueborn Targaryens had failed to mount dragons.

“I think we should return, your Grace,” Ser Barristan suggested. “On the morrow will be an important day and you should rest well.”

Queen Daenerys seemed to sense his intentions and played along.

“I agree,” she said and smiled sweetly at Prince Aegon, though Barristan could see that it was feigned. She held no liking for the boy and her entanglement with Jon was probably part of the reason. “I need my dire rest. And you shall soon see the dragons soaring above the blue sky, dear nephew.”

Prince Aegon returned her smile, but it looked just as false.

“I am looking forward to it, dear Aunt.”

…


	35. Sam the Slayer

**Sam the Slayer**

The smell of roasted onions met Sam’s nose as he entered Maester Aemon’s humble abode. The smell made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. It had been a whole day that he had last received a proper meal.

There had been so much work to do for the upcoming battle and that Bowen Marsh, who was currently in charge of Castle Black, was making them work like cattle hadn’t helped to ease his constant need for food.

The lack of sleep didn’t help either. Every night, when Sam he rarely slept more than a few hours, before he would be woken by terrible nightmares.

Some of his brothers had laughed about him for weeping like a little babe whenever he was wrapped up in his fur, but Grenn had silenced them on the next day and ever since Sam had been left alone. Pyp had even insisted that that Sam was called Sam the Slayer for killing this terrifying wight that had once been a brother of theirs.

Just thinking about the incident brought tears to his eyes. The only way he had been able to be brave enough was Gilly and her baby, but now that the Wildlings were coming for them he felt even more afraid. He imagined them all like Craster, cruel men who would pick out his eyes or cut off his balls and eat them as one of the older rangers had told them.

“Samwell Tarly is here,” Maester Aemon said.

As always, Sam was stunned by the old man’s superior hearing.

“How did you know, Maester Aemon?” he asked with an awkward smile after he had poked his head into the room.

What surprised him even more was the presence of Lord Eddard Stark, who was looming above the bent old men like a giant.

Sam didn’t know what to make of him. The former Lord of Winterfell was a plain-looking man, who usually kept his brown braided out of his face.

These days he appeared more miserable than usual. His face was gaunt and his eyes heavy with unspoken grief.

Sam knew about the source of his grief as well. Not long ago, word had reached them about the sack of Winterfell by the hands of the Ironborn. The entire castle and Lord Stark’s sons had supposedly been put to the sword.

This too had been part of the reason Sam had stayed away from Lord Stark, for he and Gilly had come about one of these dead boys when they had fled back to the Wall.

The boy named Bran had made him swear before the heart tree that he wouldn’t tell anyone that they had met and so far Sam had been able to keep his word, but that was now getting harder as he saw Eddard Stark’s miserable state.

It had been bad enough, that Jon had broken his vow to the Night’s Watch and had fled Castle Black in the middle of the night, but to lose his other sons as well must have been an even greater blow.

Sam had heard so much about Jon’s family and had always said what a kind man Lord Stark was, so unlike his own father Lord Randyll Tarly, who had only ever been ashamed of a weakling like Sam.

Sam had never wanted to be a man of the Night’s Watch. He had dreamed of becoming a Maester, but that idea had displeased Lord Father, who would rather see his son die by the hands of a Wildling than to serve in the Citadel.

“Samwell,” Maester Aemon’s voice rang in his ears and made him realize that he had been lost to his thoughts. “Stop dreaming and come here, my boy!”

Sam’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and he stumbled towards the large wooden table. Parchments, scrolls and old leather-bound tomes covered the surface and made it hard to get a proper view at the shrunken old man.

“Forgive me,” he apologized quickly. “Forgive me.”

“No need, my boy,” Lord Stark added wearily. His plate had been barely touched and the mere sight of the roasted onions and sausages made Sam’s stomach growl as loud as spring thunder. “You came just in time.”

“Oh, good,” Sam replied awkwardly, his eyes still fixed on the plate. Suddenly, his stomach growled again.

Lord Stark gave him another weary smile and shoved the plate over the table.

“Sit down and eat, my boy.”

Sam was stunned by the offer, but didn’t hesitate. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten since his birth and quickly shoveled a handful of onions into his mouth, but only after he had taken a hearty bite from the sausages did his strength return.

Only then did he realize that Lord Stark was staring at him intently.

“I forgot,” he apologized again. “Why did you call me here?”

Maester Aemon chuckled.

“Lord Stark has yet to tell me his reasons.”

Lord Stark sucked in a deep breath and took a sip from his cup of mulled wine, before shifting his attention to Maester Aemon.

He looked as if all air had been drained out of his face within the matter of a heartbeat.

“There is something I need to tell you, good Maester,” Lord Stark said in a heavy voice. “It concerns Jon.”

The mention of Jon made Sam forget about his food and even his empty stomach.

_Ah, that must be the reason he called me here! He knows that Jon is my friend!_

“Jon Snow,” Maester Aemon repeated in a sad voice. “What are you trying to say, Lord Stark?”

Lord Stark’s face changed to an even paler color and he took another sip from his cup before he finally spoke:

“You might wonder why he broke his vows,” Lord Eddard said. “Well, I was partly at fault for that. It had to do with his mother and the many lies I told to protect him and myself from King Robert’s wrath.”

Sam didn’t know what to make of Lord Stark’s words, but Maester Aemon looked even more confused, his thick white brows furrowed.

“King Robert? Why would King Robert care about Jon Snow?”

Lord Stark exhaled deeply and rubbed his hands over his pale face. He didn’t even look at Maester Aemon.

“How well did you know, Prince Rhaegar?” he asked instead of answering Maester Aemon’s question directly.

Maester Aemon’s brows moved downwards, his mouth a thin line. He looked suddenly very serious.

“I have met him twice. Once before he wed Princess Elia and a second time, barely a year before the Rebellion. He had travelled all the way to the Wall to see me. He was a very melancholic young man, but not cruel of heart. Well, I suppose I misjudged him.”

“You did not,” Lord Stark replied and lifted his head to look at Maester Aemon again. “It was all a lie. My sister was never raped or abducted by Prince Rhaegar. On the contrary, he loved her and wed her,” he continued to speak, his voice failing him.

Sam had long dropped his sausage and was watching Maester Aemon’s reaction.

What Lord Stark had told him went against everything he had been told since he was a little boy. Sam couldn’t even imagine how it must feel to Maester Aemon to hear that his kin had been wrongly accused.

Silence reigned between them as the old man was holding tightly unto the handle of his chair, turning his knuckles all white.

“But why lie?” Maester Aemon asked demanded to know, his voice laced with a hint of anger. “Why spread such vile tales about my kin? To protect your sister’s honor?”

“No,” Lord Stark replied and grimaced. “I did it to protect the boy. It was better if Robert continued to believe that my sister had been raped and murdered. Forgive me, but it was the only way…,” he trailed off and covered his face with his hands gain.

“The boy?” Maester Aemon asked, his breathing ragged. “Are you implying that your sister had a  child?”

The realization hit Sam like thunder.

 _The boy_ , he thought and started to shudder. _Could it be.._

“Aye,” Lord Stark confirmed and averted his gaze again after he noticed the tears rolling down Maester Aemon’s cheeks. “She had a child. A boy, you have known him longer than me.”

“Jon Snow,” Maester Aemon muttered and leaned on the table. “Of course…it makes all sense now. Is that why he ran away?”

Lord Stark shook visibly as he lifted his head to look at Sam and then at Maester Aemon.

“He left because I told him the truth,” he explained in a trembling voice. “He felt betrayed and left.”

Sam understood now. Jon’s anger on the night before his flight had been clear for everyone to see, but the reason he had kept close to his heart.

_Seven Hells! This is a mad tale. No wonder he felt betrayed._

 “Jon,” Sam dared to interrupt. “Where might he have gone, my Lord?”

“That I do not know, my boy,” Lord Stark replied. “But I doubt he stayed in the North. He might have gone south or to Essos. When I was Hand of the King I found out that Princess Daenerys Targaryen was wed to a Dothraki warlord. Robert wanted to murder the poor girl and her unborn child, but in the end he backed away from his plan, probably because he didn’t want to lift more sins on his shoulders before joining the beyond. Well, I don’t think it is impossible that Jon went to seek out his last kin.”

“News has reached us that Princess Daenerys has managed to hatch three dragons, but that piece of information is nearly a year old,” Sam offered quickly.

“It matters not,” Lord Stark replied vaguely and leaned over to touch the old Maester’s hand. “I have already spoken to Bowen Marsh. He agreed to my suggestion of sending you and Samwell Tarly to the Citadel.”

“The Citadel?” Maester Aemon asked, understanding showing on his weather-worn face. “I see, you want to send us to safety.”

“You are Jon’s last living kin beside Princess Daenerys,” Lord Stark and squeezed the old man’s hand. “I owe him to keep you safe. Besides, the Night’s Watch will have need of a new Maester and Samwell here is the best choice for this position.”

Sam should feel happy, but he only think of his father’s rage.

“I can’t do that…my father…he is going to kill me…,” he stuttered, but Lord Stark’s warm smile silenced him.

“You are now a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Lord Stark reminded him. “Your father has no power over you. Besides, it will probably be another year before you can join the Citadel. The ship I commissioned for you will first sail to Braavos. That should give you enough time to seek out Princess Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sam felt like slapped.

“You want me to travel to the Mad King’s daughter?”

“Your father was a former Targaryen loyalist,” Lord Stark countered. “I am sure the Princess will be inclined to be courteous to you and if Jon is there. Well, I doubt you have to fear anything.”

“I am an old man, Lord Stark,” Maester Aemon added, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But I doubt I have the strength to travel all the way to Meereen.”

“Of course not,” Lord Stark assured Maester Aemon. “I also suggested sending two more brothers with you. One of them could remain with you in Braavos until Samwell’s task is done. They are meant to recruit men…Well, I needed to find a reason. You may choose any men you like and I think it would be best for you to take the girl and her babe with you. I doubt she will be safe here in Castle Black and the Northmen won’t like her either.”

“My heart is torn, Lord Stark,” Maester Aemon added sadly, shaking from head to toe. “I am inclined to accept your offer, but I am also a man of the Night’s Watch. I know my duty.”

“You are helping the Night’s Watch by going to Essos, good Maester,” Lord Stark insisted. “Because I fear we are going to have need of dragonfire should these gruesome tales from beyond the Wall prove to be true…”

“Grumpkins and snarks,” Maester Aemon repeated what the others had said about Sam’s tales. “I am surprised you believe these tales? The other brothers who had not joined Mormont think it nonsense.”

“I thought the same way,” Lord Stark said in a foreboding tone. “But Samwell here and  good dozens of other survivors have told the same kind of tales. I do not think all these men are lying, even if the others are too stubborn to accept the truth. Winter is coming for us all and we must prepare for the worst.”

…


	36. The Broken Man

**The Broken Man**

The Sept of Quiet Isle stood upon an island half a mile from the shore, where the wide mouth of the Trident widened further to kiss the Bay of Crabs. The terraced fields with fishponds down below and a windmill above were beautiful to behold, but even here autumn had lefts its mark.

The harvest had left the fields barren and the trees were dressed in colors of red, yellow and orange.

 _Winter is coming_ , Arya recalled the words of her house and tried to imagine these lands covered in thick snow.

 _It would make these lands feel more like home_ , she thought as she led her horse next to her Lady Mother. With them were ten men, led by Ser Robin Ryger, the captain of the guards of Riverrun, who like two of their other man had been hurt in a brief squabble with highwaymen that had attacked their camp in the middle of the night.

Arya had been dreaming that she was a wolf when the men had attacked. She had only heard loud shouting, clutching needle close to her heart as old Ser Ryger’s had called his men to the weapons. It was Pouls Pemford, who had thrown her over his shoulder and had carried her to safety while the rest of the guards had engaged the enemy in battle.

At the end of the battle, five men of the enemy had been slain and two had fled.

Arya, who had been too excited to go back to sleep, had watched all morning how the Delp and Elwood had dug four graves for the five men they had killed. They had all looked poor and raggedly clothed, their bones visible through their skin.

“Sparrows,” she had heard Ser Ryger mutter to her Lady Mother, who had paled and had whispered a prayer to the gods.

Arya didn’t know what sparrows had to do with these men, but they had managed to hurt three of their men, though they had only been armed with pitchforks and knifes. Enger had lost one ear and Long Lew had been cut open like a pig. All day she had heard him moan as he had clung to Elwood’s chest, who had share a horse with him. Enger had been the complete opposite. He had been utterly silent throughout the half-day travel to the Quiet Isle, holding his ever-bleeding ear. Only Ryger had gotten away with a simply cut.

Her Lady Mother had been just a silent, hiding her face beneath the hood of her cloak.

Arya had hoped they would turn around, but their Lady Mother had remained stubborn and thus Ser Ryger had suggest riding for the Quiet Isle, which was known for its healers, before moving onwards to the Giant’s Lance where Arya was meant to meet her future Lord husband…Harry something.

“My Lady,” Ser Ryger addressed her Lady Mother with the calm words of an old man. “Let me speak with the brothers and ask for their hospitality. They are usually welcoming to travelers, but we should be careful.”

Her Lady Mother gave an approving nod. “Do as you must, Ser Ryger.”

Thus, Ser Ryger dismounted and slowly crossed the broad expanse of glistening brown mudflats dotted by tidal pools.

Arya, who was getting bored shifted her attention to Elwood, who was always willing to answer her many questions.

“Why do they call this place Quiet Isle?”

“Those who dwell here seek to atone for their sins through contemplation, prayer and silence. I heard they are not allowed to speak much.”

Arya had nodded her head in understanding, trying to wrap her head around about being quiet all day long. It was a task she imagined impossible.

_Sansa would have been thrown from the island in the matter of a heartbeat. And Jeyne Poole as well._

Thinking of her sister and her nosy friend made her sad again and she quickly brushed these thoughts away.

It was too painful to think about.

“So, they are like Silent Sisters but man?” Arya asked instead.

Elwood gave her a dumb look and pondered her reply, before a smile curled over his lips.

“I suppose so, my Lady. I have never thought about it that deeply.”

“Quit talking!” Long Lew complained with a heavy groan and jerked his head at the approaching Ser Ryger. “Get me to this damn Sept!”

“Not on horse,” Ser Ryger explained to her Lady Mother upon his return. “If we want to sleep beneath their roof we have to accept their customs. We must cross the mud on foot. The path of faith, they call it. Only the faithful may cross safely.”

All blood drained out of Long Lew’s face. “Are you fucking with me, Ser? My innards are threatening to spill out of my stomach and you want me to walk on foot through this mud? Just stab me and be done with me.”

“Calm your tits, Lew,” Elwood appeased him. “I am going to help you.”

Lew seemed less convinced, but they managed somehow. Long Lew was carried by two men over the expanse of mud while Arya, her Lady Mother followed behind Ser Ryger, who led the way.

 The path of faith as Ser Ryger had called it proved quite bothersome.

Now and then, the old man stopped and plunged his spear into the ground before waving his hand at them.

Their only interesting to see were all these sea creatures. Crabs, mussels and dead fish.

The sun was descending in the west, painting the sky in soft violet when they finally arrived at their destination.

There, waiting for them as they climbed up broken stones that ringed the shorelines, stood three men. They were clad in brown robes with wide sleeves and pointed cowls. Two of them had wound lengths of wool about the lower halves of their faces, which made impossible to see their faces.

The third brother was the one that spoke first.

“Welcome strangers,” he greeted them. “How may we be of help?”

“We ask for your hospitality,” her Lady Mother explained and pulled down the hood of her cloak. “We also have two wounded men. We hoped your healers might be able to help.”

The man nodded his head.

“The gods are always willing to help and so are we. You are welcome and the Elder Brother and his apprentices will be able to take care of your men.”

Her Lady Mother smiled warmly and Long Lew sighed in relief.

“I thank you, brother. The Seven may repay you for your generosity.”

“The Seven may bless you as well, my Lady,” the man replied and led them along a pebbled path to a wooden stable.

“Your horses can stay here,” the man explained. “Brother Gilliam will see that they are fed and watered.”

“We can do that ourselves,” Ser Ryger added and receive an understanding nod.

“As you please,” he replied and led them down a deep slope, though their descend was eased by wooden steps that wandered back and forth across the hillside and amongst the many buildings.

As they went, they passed a dozen of more brothers, all of them garbed in the same brown robes. They watched them as they passed, but none of them spoke a single word.

Arya saw many more of them, all of them occupied with work. There was one boy working a butter churn, a handful of boys guarding a flock of sheep and high up on a lichyard she spotted a massive man digging a fresh grave.

“Look that will be yours, Long Lew!” Elwood jested and promptly received a kick in the balls from the still very much alive Long Lew, though going by the weary expression on his face he seemed in pain.

“That’s the gravedigger,” the brother who was leading them warned. “Stay away from him. He is not the friendly sort, especially not to little girls, my Lady.”

“Come,” her Lady Mother added and pulled on her arm. “We shall listen to the, brother.”

Arya nodded her head and followed along. She didn’t want to squabble with her Lady Mother when she had recently suffered one loss after another. First, they had lost father to the Night’s Watch, followed by the death of Bran of Rickon and then they had lost Sansa as well.

Arya disliked Robb for selling her to this dumb Harry Something, but she also didn’t want to make her Lady Mother’s life harder than necessary.

The brow of the hill was crowned by a low wall of stone, encircling a cluster of large buildings. There was a windmill, the cloisters where the brothers slept and the common hall where they took their meals and at last a wooden sept for prayers. The sept had windows made of painted glass and wide doors carved with images of the Mother and Father.

Behind the building she noticed a garden where two young brothers were watering the plants.

Not long after, the brother that had greeted them led them around a chestnut tree to a wooden door set in the side of the hill.

Arya frowned at that.

“Why does a cave need a door?”

“It’s called the Hermit’s Hole,” the brother explained. “The first holy man to find his way here lived here and worked so many wonders that many others came to join him. That was supposedly two thousand years ago. Well, the door came later, as a matter of convenience. The night’s air can get rather chilly here.”

Well, for a cave, the Hermit’s Hole proved warm and pleasant, furnished with a long table, a settle, a chest, several tall cases full of books and chairs. All were made from driftwood, oddly shaped pieces that didn’t quite fit together, but polished and clean.

The Elder Brother proved not as old as Arya had expected. He stood straight and tall and moved with the vigor of a man in the prime of his years. His face was square, his eyes shrewd and his nose veined and red.

Arya had a hard time believing that this kind of man could heal people, but when he noticed their presence he graced them with an almost warm smile.

“Welcome, friends,” he said and lowered his head in greeting. “I heard of your woes. Bring your wounded inside and I shall take care of them while brother Elias will make sure to see you fed. You must be thirsty.”

“We are,” her Lady Mother confirmed and smiled in relief. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

Soon after, Long Lew was carried inside and followed by Enger. Elder Brother joining them at once while her Lady Mother, Arya and the rest of their companions were attended to by brother Elias, who turned out to be a young freckled man with bushy-red eyebrows.

He poured them cups of sweet cider and brought them bread and butter. They filled their bellies in silence and not long after they were escorted to their sleeping places. It was not much but a wooden roof, but better than nothing.

Arya at least didn’t mind. She had slept beneath the open sky when she had traveled in company of the sworn brother Yoren, who had brought her way to Riverrun. Along the way she had seen many terrors, but had also made friends. There had been Lommy, Hot Pie and the Bull or Gendry as he had later revealed to her. Arya had offered them a place in Riverrun, but they had run away as neither of them had wanted to join the Night’s Watch. Well, Yoren hadn’t cared all too much, for Robb had given him three criminals from Riverrun’s cells to compensate for his loss.

Yet, that were not the only people she had met during her long travel. There had also been three dangerous men that Yoren had kept locked up in a cage, though only one of the three had survived the travel. On the last day before her arrival in Riverrun he had begged her to free him and had promised her a gift in return.

Arya had complied and had received a golden coin and the words “Valar Morgulis”.

As she wound her cloak tighter around her shoulders she wondered what had happened to all these people she had known.

She wondered if Yoren had found his way back to the Wall. She wondered if the strange man with the coin had found his way home. She also wondered if Jon had returned to Robb. He had supposedly broken his vows, but even Arya couldn’t imagine that Robb would harm him. Besides, Jon wouldn’t leave without a good reason. Someone might have wanted to harm him. Aye, that was the only possible answer.

Yet, most of all she wondered about Nymeria. She had left here in the Riverlands and often dreamed of her. Deep in her heart, she still hoped that her loyal wolf would find his way back to her.

 _You sound almost as whiny as Sansa_ , she chided herself and fell asleep.

It was the flapping of wigs that woke her from her slumber. Rubbing her eyes, she noticed a crow seated atop a tree visible through the window that was slightly opened.

“Girl! Girl! Girl!” the bird croaked and cocked its head left and right. “Girl! Girl! Girl!”

Arya was fascinated. She had never heard a crow speak.

Ever quietly, she rose to her feet and slipped outside.

 _As quiet as a cat_ , she reminded herself and closed the door ever carefully. _And as quick as a rabbit!_

The bird was still seated atop the tree when she arrived there.

“Girl,” he repeated and spread his wings wide. “Girl!”

Within the blink of a moment, he had taken flight and was soaring away.

Arya followed after him, her steps unsure in the darkness and before she knew what had happened she found herself on the lichyard where the freshly-dug grave had long been filled to the brim with fresh soil.

“Death!” the bird croaked again and the flapping of wings caused her to look up at the nearby tree. It was a large oak, all bent and crooked like an old hag. “Death!”

Arya stopped in her tracks, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest when she laid eyes on the odd stranger seated beneath the tree, the crow now perched atop his shoulder.

He was a scarecrow of a man, his face thin and incredibly pale, his lips almost blue. He wore the earthen robes of a brother and his head was covered with wool.

Yet, that was not the strangest thing about him. His brow was covered with a nasty cut and his right arm he carried curled up to his chest and held by a binding.

“Death!” the crow croaked again as the man turned to look at her with eyes as black as death. “Girl!”

With a slow movement of his good arm he touched the bird’s head and silenced him.

Then he shifted his attention back to Arya and spoke in a strange rattling voice.

“Girl,” he said. “Come closer. I mean you no harm.”

Arya wanted to give in to her fears, but then she was reminded of Syrio’s words.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords_ , she whispered to herself and stepped closer towards the strange man. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

“Who are you?” she asked in a strained voice. “Is the crow yours?”

“Crows belong to nobody,” the man replied and watched her closely. “Like your wolf. She won’t be the same when she comes back to you.”

Arya was stunned.

“You know about Nym?” she asked. “But how?”

“My friend told me,” the man replied and patted the bird’s head. “The trees are also willing to bare such truths to us if we are prepared to sit still and listen, but for that you need the right kind of tree and to find such a special tree you would have to go to the Island of Faces.”

Arya was confused, but the man no longer appeared dangerous. Only very odd. At least that is what she wanted to believe.

_He knows about Nym. Mayhaps he can tell me where to find her._

“Where is that?”

“Harrenhall,” the man replied and waved his hand at the patch of green grass surrounding the tree. “Not a place you have visited. You came from far away.”

“North,” Arya explained and sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. “And you? Where are you from?”

“Nowhere,” he replied. “That is why they call me the Stranger. Not that it is important. Death will come for us all very soon. Winter is coming at last.”

Arya shuddered when she heard these words. The words fitted him.

With his pale face and his hollow cheeks he looked literally like a dead man walking.

“These are the words of my House,” she explained and watched the bird. “Do you know House Stark?”

“Stark,” he repeated in his strange rattling voice. “No, but I have heard the words before. They are meant as a warning. Eternal winter. A forgotten pact. Death is coming for us soon.”

“You said that before,” Arya replied with disappointment. “You also mentioned Nym. Have you seen her?”

“She is a wild beast and haunts with her kin,” the man answered her question. “But she is still bound to you and always will be. You are having wolf dreams, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” Arya replied, hope filling her heart. “Did your friend tell you that as well? Or was it the oak tree?”

“My friend,” the man replied, obviously oblivious to her jape. “And you, child. You were touched by death as well. Will you show me your coin?”

Arya frowned and pulled the coin from her vest, showing it to the strange man.

He leaned forward and picked it from her hand, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he took in the golden coin.

“Valar Morgulis,” he said. “A Faceless Man gave you this? Why?”

Arya knew nothing about Faceless Men and even less about his reasons.

“I do not know,” she replied and shrugged her shoulders. “Mayhaps I will find out in the future. Well, back to Nym. Do you know where I can find her?”

“She will find you when she is ready,” the man replied and suddenly angled his head, his dark eyes seeking something or someone behind Arya.

Arya turned around and noticed that it was the massive man who had dug the grave, a spade slung over his shoulder.

“Welcome, gravedigger,” the man named Stranger greeted. “What brings you here?”

“It’s you,” the gravedigger replied and revealed his face to her. “Stark’s little runt.”

Arya’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she laid eyes on the man’s ugly scar. Slick black flesh with craters and deep cracks curled over his face and neck.

“The bloody Hound!” she shrieked and backed away.

“Aye,” the Hound grumbled. “And you are Stark’s little runt.”

 Arya quickly hopped to her feet and freed Needle, pointing it at him 

“Do not get closer or I will kill you!” she shouted, her voice high and distant to her ears. “I swear it! 

The Hound laughed and kicked the blade out of her hand, causing her to stumble backwards and land on her ass 

“That is quite enough, brother,” the man name Stranger said in his slow and rattling voice. “The girl’s companions would kill you if you do her harm.”

“Keep out of this, crowfucker!” the Hound growled and stepped closer, looming over her like a giant. “I didn’t want to harm her. I just can’t stand it if someone waves a fucking blade in front of my face.”

Arya didn’t waste any time and picked up Needle. Then, she fled from the lichyard without looking back.

_Never fight a battle you cannot win._

This too her Syrio had taught her.

…


	37. Betrayal

**Jon**

Jon watched the blue sky with growing trepidation. He had grown up in the North where even the summers were full of snow. The heat of Meereen could be bearable at night and when a cool breeze came blowing from the east, but today would be no such day, so much he could tell by the lack of clouds.

“The poor fighters will soon be baking in the sun,” Dany remarked and handed her silken robe to Jhiqui while Irri was watching them from the shadows of the persimmon tree. Usually, Dany took her baths with them, but today she had asked for Jon’s company.

It made him think back on the day he had first taken a bath with her in this pool. She had been a stranger to him and he had been trying his best to only see his “Aunt” in her, but that had turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. By now he was craving her embrace like a sweet delicacy. It made him feel almost ashamed at times, but perhaps that was only natural. Their forbearers had taken their brothers and sisters to bed. Bedding his Aunt was almost harmless compared to that

 _It is in my blood_ , he thought and continued to flex his burned hand as he lifted his gaze to take in Dany’s naked form. _The blood of the dragon and wolf._

Her form looked fuller, especially her breasts, but perhaps that was just his imagination.

Not that it mattered. Her sight never failed to wake his desire. Especially, the silver locks of her sex made him want to lose himself between her legs and forget about today’s event.

“Did you even listen?” Dany asked with a chuckle and glided back to him through the glimmering green water after she had swam a circle. Jon had sat atop the highest step leading into the pool, watching her.

“No,” Jon admitted with an embarrassed smile. “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.”

Dany chuckled and bridged the distance between them. Jon had barely managed to spread his arms in time to receive her, the water splattering around them and glittering in the morning light like diamonds.

“You are always apologizing,” she chided softly him and brushed his wet hair out of his face. “Bad habits die hard, eh?”

Jon knew what she was referring to, but he didn’t want to think about the uncertain future. Westeros was still far away from his grasp and with his half-brother’s appearance here in Meereen things had turned out to be far more complicated than expected.

 _We could be dead on the morrow_ , Jon thought and shifted his attention back to Dany, who was still secure in his arms.

He didn’t even give her  chance to lecture him again, for his lips had found hers within the blink of a moment.

His hands were as quick as her lips, running up and down her form, touching every part he could reach. She giggled when he touched her full backside and kissed him harder, rising even on her toes.

He let her do as she pleased, her slender fingers palming his cock. Kissing her dizzied his mind even more.

“Dany…,” he breathed when she let go of his mouth and trailed wet kissed down his bare stomach before swallowing him whole.

His vision exploded with stars and he tasted blood on his lips after he had tried to stifle his gasps.

He wanted her to continue, but then she stopped abruptly, leaving him laboring for breath, his heart pounding wildly.

She smiled at him, her silver hair spilling wet and untamed over her shoulders.

“Your turn.”

Jon knew what she wanted and cupped one of her breasts, relishing the touch of her skin and enjoying the weight of it in his palm.

The small puffs of air leaving her mouth told him that she was pleased by his attentions. Smiling, he leaned in to kiss her breast. When he gave the same treatment to the other, her hands started to grab for his wet hair.

It was a pain he craved.

As she continued her attentions, he spared a glance at the thatch of silver hair between her legs.

He kissed her again, before breaking away to kiss her neck.

Yet, his lips soon moved from her neck to her chest, her stomach and then between her legs.

He kissed and licked her hungrily as she continued to pull on his hair. The taste of her was just as pleasant as the soft moans spilling forth from her lips.

Then, Jon decided to pay her back for her earlier betrayal and stopped, seeking her gaze instead.

He found her face flushed and she was gasping for breath. Her deep violet eyes glittered with desire and were nearly as black as a starry night sky.

He gave her no choice to escape and lifted her up into his arms, her hands instinctively holding onto his shoulders and her thighs wrapped around his hips.

Half-dazed, he turned around and placed her gently upon a stone step, so low the water barely managed to reach their waist.

Jon gasped when he found her warmth, the heat and the wetness of her making his teeth clench.

Soon, she was shaking her head back and forth against his neck, before suddenly biting down on his shoulder.

It was this act that sent him over the edge, a shuddering moan leaving his lips as he spilled his seed inside her.

Out of breath, he slowly slid back into the water and left her pleasant embrace.

“You bit me,” he couldn’t help but to remark and touched his neck.

She chuckled and sank deep into the water.

“A dragon has also teeth,” she told him jestingly.

“I forgot to tell you,” she added then and touched his cheek, her face taking a more serious expression. “Aegon intends to accompany us to the fights.”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown. His supposed half-brother shouldn’t be there. Not only because he could get hurt, but also because his presence made him aware of a painful fact. There was nothing he could offer Dany other than a possible allegiance with his brother Robb that was now also put in question that Stannis had taken the crown. Aegon may or may not be his brother, but nobody could accuse him of coming with empty hands. The Golden Company was known far and wide, though he couldn’t bring himself to fully trust their intentions. They were known Blackfyre loyalists. Why would they help a Targaryen Prince to reclaim his crown? Gold? Desperation to go home? Jon had yet to find out.

“Jon,” Dany’s soft voice and touch on his shoulder called him back to the present. “Are you upset?”

“Not because of you,” he assured her. “But couldn’t you tell him to stay away?”

“He insisted upon it,” Dany returned. “And you told me I should try to make him our ally. Well, I am trying my best, but it is not as easy as you made it out to be.”

“But better than to fight a war amongst each other,” Jon countered. “That would only weaken our position, especially because Stannis has taken the crown.”

Dany nodded her head in understanding and brushed her silver hair behind her ears.

“If I could be sure that he really is my nephew it would be much easier for me,” she explained. “I could support him without regrets and we could simply do what I proposed. We could take Dragonstone and live there, we could even get married and leave it to Aegon to secure the Targaryen line…,” she trailed off.

“Yet you don’t believe that it is him?” Jon asked. Her certainty confused him. “He looks more like a Targaryen than me and this Lord Connington and even my mother are convince that he is Prince Aegon.”

She gave him a conflicted look and averted her gaze for a moment, before her violet gaze flickered back to him.

“It…it has to do with a prophecy I was given in the House of the Undying,” she explained, her violet gaze growing wide with fear. “I saw a [cloth dragon](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Heraldry) swaying on poles amidst a cheering crowd or the Mummer’s dragon as Quaithe, another wise women I have encountered on my travels, called him.”

Her words confused him even more. He was not the kind of person to believe in prophecy, but then what did he really know about such matters? Dany had supposedly woken dragons from stone and had emerged unharmed from a burning pyre.

“A Mummer’s dragon,” he repeated and pondered over the name. “That could fit me just as much.”

“Never,” Dany insisted and clutched his face between her hands. “I was never warned of a dragon disguising as a wolf, but she did warn me of the others…The Sun’s Son, the Lion’s son, the Perfumed Seneschal, the Griffin and the Mummer’s Dragon.”

“The Sun’s Son,” Jon repeated in awe. “That can only Quentyn Martell…,” he trailed off.

“And the Perfumed Seneschal was Reznak and the Griffin is Lord Connington…which only leaves Aegon as the Mummer’s Dragon.”

“I understand,” Jon confirmed and brushed her hands away. “But that is no proof. People will still believe him if they want to believe him. Besides, I think it is not wise to depend on prophecies. Look where it brought my father? Into an early grave.”

Dany’s face fell, but a smile was still lingering on her lips.

“Mayhaps you are right,” she said at last and climbed out of the pool of water.

The water glittered on her like starlight. It was a beautiful sight to behold, but Jon quickly brushed these thoughts away.

The time for idleness was over. Meereen was expecting a mummery.

The sun loomed high above the Great Pyramid when he joined Dany and her retinue.

She wore a tokar of yellow silk and her strange crown that were in essence floppy ears.

Jon had laughed when he had first laid eyes on this odd crown, but it was only fitting for her to wear it today.

She was pretending to make peace, to lure the Sons of the Harpy out of the shadows.

Dany chose to ride on her Silver and surrounded by her handmaids _._ Behind her marched the Brazen Beasts led by the Shavepate and a score of Unsullied led by Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas while. Ser Barristan had insisted upon it as he held little trust in the Shavepate’s untried freedmen. The fact that half of them were people hailing from this city only added to Ser Barristan’s worries. Jon had agreed with him, but he saw little reason for the Shavepate to harm them. Dany had implied more than once that she intended to give him command over Meereen once she returns to Westeros.

Along the way they were joined by Lord Connington, his King and his new ally, Prince Quentyn Martell. Each were seated atop a horse and garbed in their finest clothing.

As expected, they had also brought their men-at-arms. Aegon was flanked by a massive knight with a shock of red hair while Prince Quentyn had brought his two travelling companions. Both looked dangerous enough, but Jon had yet to see them fight.

The only relief was that Sansa was safe with Lady Lyanna, his mother. Robb wouldn’t forgive him if something happened to her.

 _Lord Tyrion will keep them entertained_ , he was sure, though the prophecy Dany had given him made him question the dwarf’s intentions. The Lion’s son could be no other than a Lannister, so much was clear, but then he had also advised Dany not to trust too much in prophecies.

 _I should take my own advice_ , he thought with amusement and shifted his attention to Ghost, who was prowling next to his horse.

He had grown quite a bit in the last moons and was now bigger than a horse. Left and right, men backed away as he passed, but Jon felt no fear in his presence. On the contrary, he felt safer.

_If you are lucky you are going to get a fat Son of the Harpy for your next supper, boy._

As if conjured by magic the wolf lifted his head, his ruby eyes seeking Jon’s.

It was a strange occurrence, but not the first time that this had happened. At times, it felt as if they were connected through an invisible bond…

Cheers rang in his ears as they rode through the city, but they were only a distant echo to Jon’s ears. His gaze was elsewhere, watching the crowd for a potential enemy.

The heat was getting only worse as they made their way through the crowd, sweat running down his cheeks and pooling around his neck. It made him wish that he was back in the pool of water, losing himself in Dany’s embrace…

The noise only increased as the Brazen Beasts continued to sound their drums that drowned out Jhiqui’s and Irri’s quarrelling voices. They were debating who was going to win the day’s finally match.

Jhiqui favored a man named Goghor, who supposedly looked more like a bull than man. Irri insisted that a man named Belaquo Bonebreaker would win the day.

Louder and faster, the sound of the drumbeats rose as they continued along the street only to come to a sudden halt.

“Why have we stopped?” Dany asked Ser Barristan and straightened herself in her saddle to get a better look.

Jon did the same and found the reason for their stop. A palanquin lay overturned, blocking their path. One of its bearers must have collapsed, overcome by the heat.

Dany was quick to command someone to attend to him, before they could finally move on to Daznak’s Pit.

At the gates of Daznak’s Pit, they were greeted by two towering bronze warriors standing locked in mortal combat. One wielded a sword, the other a mighty axe, their blades and bodies forming an archway overhead.

Jon had never set foot into such a place, but the idea of having men fight to the death to entertain these nobles made his stomach twist.

Not long after, they emerged at the top of a great brick bowl ringed by descending tiers of benches, each a different color.

Dany walked first, followed by Ser Barristan and the rest of their entourage to be met half-way way by Hizdahr zo Loraq, who led them to a box giving a commanding view over the pit.

As Jon swept his gaze over the pit he saw peddlers selling sausages, roasted onions and unborn puppies on sticks. The sight was enough to turn Dany’s face green.

Her stomach had been acting up since they had returned to Meereen or at least that is what she had complained about only recently.

Still, that didn’t keep Hizdahr from offering food to them. They offered chilled wine, sweet water, figs, dates, melons, pomegranates and at last a big bowl of honey locust. Especially, the last dish made Jon’s stomach turn in circles and made him long for Old Nan’s pies. _Oh gods, what I would do for one of those! Another reason to go home!_

Only Strong Belwas seemed enthusiastic about this type of dish.

“Locusts!” he seized the bowl and began to stuff them into his mouth. “Those are very tasty.”

“You ought to taste one yourself, your Worship,” Hizdahr offered sweetly. “They are rolled in spice before they are dipped in honey, so they are sweet and hot at once.”

Dany gave him an apologetic smile. “I am not feeling all too well, but the spice explains the way Belwas is sweating. I believe I will content myself with figs and dates.”

Jon’s hand brushed over the hilt of his sword as he swept his gaze over the rows of onlookers. Across the pit sat the Graces in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of the Green Grace or according to the Shavepate, the Harpy.

The Shavepate frowned as much as Jon as he watched Hizdahr stand up to address the crowd.

“Friends! The Mother of Dragons has come this day, to show her love for you, her people. By her grace and with her leave, I give you now your mortal art!”

The cheers of a thousand throats rang in his ears, tongues mixing together in dialects some of which were foreign to Jon.

 _Mhysa,_ he recognized and turned around to look at Dany and the rest of their companions. _Mother._

Aegon sat there, one leg thrown over the other and his bright red cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders. His silver hair gave him the appearance of a true Targaryen King, some of which Jon had seen painted in Maester Luwin’s books.

He looked just as unhappy as Lord Connington, who frowned even more than usual. Only the red-haired knight seemed in awe, his cheeks deeply flushed, but his hand always resting on the hilt of his sword.

Prince Quentyn looked less at ease, his face covered with sweat and flanked by his two companions.

Yet, the most miserable of all appeared to be Dany. She wore her mask well, but whenever the word “mother” rang loud she tensed. He knew why and wanted to do something to ease her pain, but he knew there was naught he could do about that matter.

It was ironic, really. When he had been Eddard Stark’s bastard he had never wasted a second thought about having children. That had been a dream not meant for someone like him, but now that he wished for it, it was not possible.

Jon felt at times anger stir in his heart when he thought about Dany’s condition. Even cruel people like Cersei Lannister were graced with children.

_Truly, births must be controlled by an existence who’s either extremely incompetent or extremely sarcastic._

“Khrazz will have the honor of the day’s first kill,” Hizdahr informed them with a smile after he had returned to his seat. “There has never been a better fighter than him.”

“Strong Belwas was better,” Strong Belwas added cheerfully as always.

This Khrazz was of humble birth, a tall man with a brush of stiff red-black hair running down the center of his head. His enemy was an ebony-skinned spearman from the Summer Isles whose thrusts were quick enough, but once Khrazz had managed to slip inside the spear with his short sword, only bloody butchery remained.

But that was not all. After the first battle was done, Khrazz cut the heart from the black man and presented his bloody trophy to the cheering crowd.

“Khrazz believes the hearts of brave men make him stronger,” Hizdahr informed them again.

Jon wanted to shut him up. It wasn’t like the battle had disgusted him, but the whole purpose of this spectacle did. That they were waiting for the Sons of the Harpy to make a move didn’t help to ease the tension in his body.

“Ah!” Hizdahr exclaimed in a pleased tone.” Now comes the Spotted Cat. See how gracefully he moves.”

The foe with the graceful moves was tall and as broad as Belwas, but very slow.

They were fighting not far from the box when the Spotted Cat hamstrung him. As the man stumbled to his knees, the Cat put a foot on his back and a hand around his head and opened his throat from ear to ear. The sand drank his life blood and the crowd screamed their approval.

“Bad fighting, good dying,” Strong Belwas added cheerfully. Jon wanted to shut him up too, but he was one of them and a good fighter. He had defeated the Champion of Meereen.

Many more champions followed, among them men from Qarth, from the Summer Islands, Dothraki, Tyroshi, Lamb Men, Jogos Nhai, Braavosi and many more.

“This one will show much more promise,” Hizdahr promised as a Lysean youth with bright silver hair stepped onto the battlefield.

Yet, this one died just as quickly, for his foe had grabbed a handful of hair and had pulled the boy off-balance before gutting him like a pig.

This one’s death seemed to upset Dany.

“A boy!” she shouted at Hizdahr. “We said no children would fight in the pits!”

“This boy was six and ten,” Hizdahr explained. “A man grown, who freely chose to risk his life for gold and glory.”

Dany frowned and shook from head to toe. Then, she covered her mouth and averted her gaze asking Irri to bring her water.

By the time, she had emptied her cup another battle had been fought and one of the many follies started. A group of cripples, dwarfs and crones fought each other with cleavers, torches and hammers, before an elephant made short work of a pack of six reddish wolves.

“The flesh is not wasted,” Hizdahr assured her, as if the death of the animal was worse than of the humans. “The butchers use the carcasses to make stew for the hungry.”

Dany’s smile was tense.

“A good idea.”

After the beast fights came a mock battle, pitting six men on foot against six horsemen, one group armed with shields and longswords and the other group armed with curved blades like the Dothraki.

The mock knights were clad in mail and hauberks while the mock Dothraki wore no armor. At first, the mounted riders seemed to have an advantage, but then the surviving knights attacked the horses one by one and killed each rider.

This seemed to upset Jhiqui, but Jon couldn’t hear what she muttered in Dany’s ear.

Next came another folly, a tilt between a pair of jousting dwarfs that had been supposedly bought by a noble from Meereen. One rode a hound, the other a pig.

Their silly antics made the crowd laugh and Jon scowl. It made him wonder what Lord Tyrion would think of this.

When one of the dwarfs finally tumbled into the sand the other dwarf galloped after him, hitting him with his wooden sword.

Again the crowd laughed.

“They are about to loose the lions,” Hizdahr added with an amused smile.

Dany looked just as confused as Jon.

“Lions?” she asked and frowned. “How will they fight lions with wooden sticks?”

“Badly,” Hizdahr replied and chuckled. “Though they might surprise us. Well, I think is more likely that they will piss themselves and run away screaming.”

_Mayhaps we should throw you into the pit and watch as you run screaming._

Jon who was tempted to do that was sure the Shavepate would like that.

“I forbid it,” Dany’s firm voice rang in his ears.

“Your Worship…,” Hizdahr began.

“I forbid it,” she insisted louder and Hizdahr finally relented and waved his hand at this pitmaster.

“No lions,” he said with obvious disappointment “Bring Barsena. That should appease the crowd.”

The pitmaster snapped his whip and shouted out commands. At once, the dwarfs were driven away and the crowed showed their disapproval by throwing stones and rotten fruits.

Suddenly, a roar went up as Barsena Blackhair strode onto the sands, naked safe for a breechclout and sandals.

She was a tall, dark woman of thirty, who moved as graceful as a panther.

“Barsena is much loved,” Hizdahr gushed. “The bravest woman I have ever seen.”

“Fighting girls is not brave. Fighting Strong Belwas would be brave,” the fat man added unnecessarily.

 _My little sister would think otherwise_ , Jon couldn’t help but to think, but kept his mouth shut, his hand brushing over Ghost’s head to keep him still beside him. _She would stick her little Needle in your guts and tickle you until you are dead._

“Today she will fight a boar,” Hizdahr explained enthusiastically and rubbed his hands together.

The boar she faced was a fearsome best, with tusks as long as a man’s forearm and small eyes that glinted with rage. Even, Ghost would have a hard time fighting this thing.

“Barsena is quick,” the Shavepate added surprisingly and took a sip from his cup. “She will dance with the boar and slice him when he passes near her. That is how she always does it. It is an old trick.”

It happened as the Shavepate had told them. The boar charged, Barsena spun aside quickly and her blade flashed brightly at the beast.

Jon had never seen someone fight a boar like that, but it seemed to work…

Soon, Barsena’s sword was running red with blood, but the boar was not as stupid as Jon had first believed. He stopped suddenly and didn’t charge again.

Shouting, Barsena edged closer to the bear, tossing her knife at the beast.

The boar backed away and she cursed, jabbing her sword at his snout.

This time, she finally managed to provoke him into an attack, but her leap came an instant too late.

Jon could only stare in horror as a tusk ripped her left leg open.

Barsena dropped her weapon instantly, obviously trying to flee, but the boar was on her again.

Jon looked, away as a high scream echoed in his ears, but not long after a choking sound caused him to shift his attention to Dany.

She had vomited her fast on Hizdahr’s golden sandals.

When Jon turned his attention back to the boar and his victim he knew why.

The boar had buried his snout in Barsena’s belly and began rooting out her entrails.

“Take off my floppy ears,” he heard Dany’s strained voice ringing in his ears and caused him to turn around again.

Her face was ash pale as she unwound the yellow silk of her tokar.

“We should leave,” Jon suggested once he had reached her side, all their plans and mummeries forgotten.

“There is more to come,” the Shavepate added in obvious displeasure.

Hizdahr nodded his head in agreement, though an expression of disgust was written all over his face.

“A folly, six old women and three matches are still left. And at last, Belaquo and Goghor!”

“Belaquo will win,” Irri declared quietly. “It is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui added with an unsure smile as her gaze darted to Dany. “Belaquo will die.”

“I care not,” Dany snapped in irritation and brushed the sweat from her brow. “I care not.”

“It would make a bad impression if you left…,” the Shavepate pressured further. He looked strangely nervous, which was odd, because the Shavepate rarely showed emotions.

 _Something is wrong_ , he realized at once and jumped to his feet, his heart racing wildly. _Something is wrong_.

Jon grabbed the Shavepate by his tunic, lifting him up in the air.

“What game are you playing?”

The man gasped for air, but Jon’s attention was soon directed elsewhere, for the Brazen Beasts that were placed outside their box had suddenly freed their weapons and were starting to attack the Unsullied and Ser Barristan.

Jon dropped the Shavepate and freed his blade to bury it in a serpent-masked man that had tried to lunge into the box towards Dany and her handmaids.

Barristan killed another, his blade sharp and deadly, but Jon had no time to admire his skill in swordplay.

Just as Jon had jumped out of the box, another one was quickly at him, trying to stab him with a spear

Jon managed to parry each blow, but then he suddenly felt something sharp brush against his side, making him cry out in pain.

He backed away, whirled around and found another masked man, armed with a curved blade.

He was about to lift his blade when Ghost had jumped him, his sharp fangs seeking the man’s neck.

Jon managed to gain some distance between himself and the man, before Strong Balwas had grabbed him from behind, breaking his neck with a quick turn of his arms.

Jon was thankful, for he was trying to cover his bleeding wound with his left hand while trying to hold his blade with the other had as his gaze flickered back to Dany and her handmaids.

Relief washed over him when he saw her surrounded by the Unsullied, their spears raised and their shields bared before them.

Jon glanced around to find Hizdahr or the Shavepate, but another man was quickly at him. This one wore a basilisk mask and swung a mighty maze at him.

Jon managed to avoid the maze, but his wound slowed him down as he stumbled down the steps, his sword half-raised and ready to cut the man apart.

This, time he went for Jon’s head and it was the greatest mistake of his life.

Jon cut him open, his gust spilling out unto the purple steps.

The smell was overwhelming as was the pain in his side. It took him a moment to realize that more men had emerged from the shrieking crowd and were attacking the Brazen Beasts, all of them armed with small weapons. It was hard to say how many there were, but Jon estimated at least thirty.

Jon had no time to waste another thought on them as two Brazen Beasts came straight at him, his sight blurred from the whirled-up dust.

Jon was about to lift his blade when a black shadow ripped across the pit.

At once, the tumult and the shouting died down. Every eye turned skyward, a warm wind brushing over Jon and above him he heard the sound of wings.

Drogon had returned.

His scales were black, his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red, his wings stretching twenty feet from tip to tip.

He flapped them once as he swept above the sand and whirled up more red dust.

It was the sound of thunder and within the blink of a moment the boar and dead Barsena were engulfed by a shot of black fire.

Even from afar, Jon could feel the heat.

A dying scream echoed over the pit as the dragon sank his claws into the smoking flesh and started to feast.

Suddenly, a lone spearman darted forward and leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point deeper, causing the dragon to arch upward and roar in pain.

Angrily, Drogon lashed his tail sideways and hit the dragonslayer, who promptly lost his footing and kissed the red sand.

He was trying to get back to his feet, when the dragon’s teeth closed hard around his forearm and wrenched his arm from his shoulder and tossed it as if it was a child’s toy.

“Kill the beast!” a familiar voice rang loud over the crowd. “Kill the beast!”

It was Hizdahr, their oh so gracious host, who was waving his hand at the Brazen Beasts or Sons of the Harpy, who had only a moment ago been occupied fighting their Unsullied.

They obeyed at once, revealing the Shavepate’s treachery.

Jon gritted his teeth and glanced around to find the Shavepate surrounded by a good twenty of his Brazen Beasts.

He was still bleeding and his feet felt wobbly as he threw himself in the way of two spearmen trying to get to Drogon.

Ghost soon joined him, pulling them to the ground, but Jon was only one man and soon there were a good dozen spearmen hurling their weapons at Drogon while Jon found himself pinned down by another axmen.

Left and right, he hacked at him with his axe, his breathing labored from the exhaustion and his lifeblood a stain on the ground.

Jon managed to kick the man in the groin and caused him to lose his footing, before he buried his blade deep in his neck.

Twisting the blade free, he turned around and noticed that Dany was no longer with the Unsullied, but had jumped from the box right into the pit filled with red sand, leaving nothing but a cloud of red dust behind her.

Jon’s gaze followed her, but his feet were not as quick. He stumbled down the steps like a man to deep in his cups, his blade unusually heavy.

Another masked enemy came his way. And suddenly there was another and another, their weapons raised.

Jon killed the first one with a clumsy hit at the shoulder, but the others proved a harder task.

One had grabbed Jon’s shoulder, trying to wrench the blade free from his grasp and the other one was about to bury his dagger, but with a last attempt of strength Jon had turned the other man’s arm backwards, the sound of cracking bones filling his ears.

The man screamed in pain and Jon hauled himself at the one with the dagger, his sword forgotten and his hands bloody as he buried his fist in the man’s face.

His fit of rage was interrupted when a stream of heat washed over him from behind and caused him to fall forward, kissing the hard floor.

As he turned around on his back he saw that it was Drogon, his wings spread wide and Dany clinging to his back, before carrying her off into the azure sky.

The groans of the dying man next to him caused him to snap his head around.

He thought this was the end, but the man in front of him lowered his weapon and grimaced at Jon.

“So, you are still alive bastard,” he said, his face flushed red and covered with sweat.

It took Jon a moment to realize who he was, for without his usual beard he looked almost like a different person.

Yet, the grey eyes and he hateful look were unmistakable.

“Ser Jorah,” Jon mumbled and pulled himself up, knowing very well that the man in front of him hated him, but also sure that he wouldn’t dare to kill him. “Why did you return?”

“I am here to serve my Queen, bastard.”

…


	38. Visions

**Daenerys**

Whenever Dany climbed down the hill she saw a sea of green.

Sweat was pouring down her face as she set one foot after another, the rocks scraping her hands raw as she moved.

Her skin was pink and tender, but the burns she had received from Drogon were finally healing.

She sighed in relief when she reached the bottom of the hill.

Dragonstone she had called her hill, after the place she had borne at. Viserys had told her many stories about it, both happy and gruesome.

It had been his home and she had hoped to make it hers and Jon’s when they finally returned to Westeros.

She winced as she stepped through the thorny bushes covering the lower part of the slope.

A roar caused her to turn her head to the jagged tangle of bare rocks building the top of the slope. Up there, amidst broken boulders, sharp ridges and needle spires, Drogon had built his lair inside a cave.

He had dwelled here for some time as every rock and tree in sight had been scorched and the ground was covered with broken bones.

_Yes, this must have been Drogon’s home during his long absence from Meereen._

And it seemed he also had no intention to leave.

Viserys had told her the dragonlords of old had controlled their dragons with binding spells and horns, but Dany had to make do with a word and a whip.

Flying had felt so very different from riding her Silver. Whenever she whipped her horse left she went left, but when she whipped Drogon he flew in the opposite direction.

At times, it didn’t matter what she did. Then, Drogon simply ignored her and did as he pleased.

Yet, no matter how far he had flown each day, come nightfall Drogon always returned here, his chosen home.

Not hers.

Her home was across the Narrow Sea, the land Jon called Westeros.

 _I must return_ , she reminded herself and walked along the craggy stones. _Jon and the others need me._

The sun was hot this morning and the sky an endless blue color. That was good for Dany’s garments were hardly more than rags and offered little warmth at night. Her right sandal had slipped off during her flight from Meereen and the other one she had left at Drogon’s cave. It was also much easier to move barefoot among these hills.

Her tunic made of linen didn’t look any better. It hadn’t been made to withstand the hot days and the chilly nights of the Dothraki Sea. Sweat and grass had stained it and she had torn off a piece to make a bandage for her shin.

 _I must look like a peasant_ , she mused and walked to a green patch of grass. _Almost like a beggar._

 ****_At least I am not freezing_ , she thought. _There is nothing worse than freezing._

She sat down in the soft grass to rest her feet and watched the crows circling the cloudless sky above.

They always came after Drogon had brought fresh game to feast upon. Sometimes he brought a boar, sometimes a sheep and last he had brought a lion, but he rarely left her more than a handful of burned bones and chunks of smoking meat.

She had eaten last night, but her stomach felt still empty as she watched the crows fly their never-ending circles.

_Mayhaps I should climb back up the hill and watch until the crows go near the lion’s carcass. Then, I could squash them with a stone. I have never tasted a roasted crow._

_No_ , she thought and rose back to her feet. She had enough of roasted meat. Vegetables she longed for and another fish like the one she had caught in the spring-fed pool outside Drogo’s cave. _These crows have scarcely any meat on them anyway._

Gathering her strength, she marched through the tall grass, the earth warm beneath her toes.

The grass was taller than a man. It made her feel small and insignificant.

The grass was also not as beautiful as she recalled it either. It looked sickly green on the verge of going yellow…

Autumn was here. The grass was dying.

The thought made her sad and she continued onwards, memories following her at every step.

She had been half a girl when she had first come here to the Dothraki Sea. Viserys had been still alive and grim Ser Jorah had been at her side. She also recalled Doreah, who had perished in the Red Waste and Drogo.

They were all memories now, dust blown away by the wind. She had loved them all or at least, but even that felt now like a distant and happy dream.

She had been happy too in Meereen, with Jon, Missandei, Irri, Jhiqui, her blood riders, good Ser Barristan and her children, but even that hadn’t lasted.

Her path forward had been so clear to grasp, but then her supposed nephew had appeared and had destroyed her plans.

Now she had been betrayed again by no other than the Shavepate.

The thought filled her with anger and made her think back on Daznak’s Pit.

That day was all a haze to her now. She recalled the sound of rearing horses, a spear flying and the smell of burned flesh lingering in her nose as she had climbed Drogon’s back.

 _The fire burned away my hair_ , she had realized on the next day. One side had been burned away and on her arms she had also received some burns, but otherwise the fire had left her untouched.

Then, they had taken flight, leaving everything behind them. Up and up Drogon had carried her on his back, high above the pyramids and pits, his wings spread wide while Dany had desperately clung to his back.

North they had flown, beyond the river that streamed through Meereen, Drogon soaring on torn and tattered wings. Dany had glimpsed the shores of Slaver’s Bay and the old Valyrian road that ran beside it through sand until it vanished in the west. Then there had been nothing beneath them but green grass.

The sun grew only hotter as time passed and soon her head was pounding.

She clenched her teeth and shielded her face as she continued onwards to find the silver stream she had glimpsed from atop the hill.

Water meant plants and plants meant food.

It was beyond midday when she found the stream. It was a rill, no wider than her arm, but better than nothing.

She scooped up a handful of water and splashed on her face. The water was neither cold nor clean, but it helped to ease her sunburns.

Brushing these complaints from her mind she continued her search and found a patch of bushes that sprouted from the ragged stones. A tree was there as well, a slender thing with barely any leaves and even less shade.

Yet, on the bushes she spotted berries. They were red and blue and green.

Her stomach gave a rumble and she decided she could go no further.

Thus, she tore off another piece of her linen tunic and spread it on the ground.

Then, she started to pick the berries from the bushes and placed them on the linen cloth.

Not long after, she had gathered a heap of berries, but she decided to get some more. She would need something  to break her fast on the morrow, unless Drogon decided to leave her some meat.

Smiling, she gathered another handful, only to find her supper taken from her by these pesky crows.

Anger stirred inside her gut and she jumped at them, shouting and cursing.

“Away with you! Away! Damn birds!”

Two of them fled, but one of the crows didn’t seem frightened by her and took a comfortable seat on the tree, its dark eyes watching her as she was about to gather what was left of the squashed berries.

Suddenly, the bird started to speak.

“Death!” the crow croaked and flapped his wings, before soaring towards her. “Death!”

Dany stumbled backwards and landed on her backside.

With much effort, she pulled herself up and found that the crow was picking the rest of the berries from the ground. Soon, the bird was joined by his brothers and they started picking the berries from the ground and the brushes.

“Death!” the strange crow croaked again. “Death!”

Dany shuddered when the bird’s eyes changed to a bright red color.

It was then that a loud roar rang in her ears and a shadow passed over her.

It was Drogon. He was going hunting.

When she turned back she saw that the crows had disappeared.

Shaken by her strange experience she left the squashed berries and decided to settle for the wild onions growing beneath the slope of Dragonstone.

The sky was turning to a shade of pink when she reached the top of the hill, a handful of stars blinking on the distant horizon.

She liked to count them and had made up names for to them to pass the time, but that was much harder now as her stomach was still empty.

Thus, she gathered a handful of wild onions and ate them one after another, but they were not enough to fill her empty belly.

Her eyes were beginning to grow heavy when the sound of Drogon’s wings caused her to look up.

He looked even bigger now as he landed, a blackened sheep lodged in his mouth.

The sight made her mouth water and it took all her patience to watch how Drogon feasted until there was nothing left but a blackened  carcass of bones.

Once, he had returned to his lair she picked the last pieces of meat from the blackened. She would have eaten them as well had she been graced with Drogon’s sharp teeth.

Yet, she was no real dragon, so much she knew.

She had neither sharp teeth nor wings.

 _And an empty belly_ , she reminded herself and curled herself up on her sleeping place of grass and earth.

Off in the distance, she heard the sound of a wolf and for a moment she thought Jon had come to save her, but when she looked around she realized that she was still alone.

It was a sore disappointment and she returned to her sleeping place.

As the moon rose above her, she finally slipped into a restless sleep.

She dreamed again that she was flying, the stars spinning around her like a wheel.

_To go north you must journey south. To reach west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back. To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow._

These had been Quaithe’s words. She had never forgotten them.

“Quaithe?” she called out and sat up. “Are you here?”

She saw her in the sky, her mask made of starlight.

“Remember who you are,” she whispered with the voice of he wind. “The dragons know. Do you?”

Dany had woken at these words, her body stiff and aching from the uncomfortable position.

As so often these days, the familiar feeling of sickness overcame her and she emptied her fast upon the ground.

When she was done, she gathered more onions and nibbled on them, before going to Drogon’s lair.

As every morning, she found her dragon gone.

 _Another day has passed_ , she realized as she watched the sun rise. _And I am still stuck in this place._

 _I need to leave_ , she realized then. _I cannot stay here or I will die. Mayhaps Drogon will follow if I lead the way._

Thus, she climbed from her hill and marched back into the grassland, but this time she took her whip with her.

She would need it once Drogon returned to her.

 _I shall climb on his back and fly back home_ , she told herself and walked, setting one foot after the other.

Above her flew the pesky crows and followed after her.

She hated them, but her arms and whip were to short to reach them.

Hours passed and more blisters sprouted on her feet as she stamped through the grass.

The only relief was the soft breeze touching her skin.

Along the way she had passed the silver stream and drank, but not as much as she would have liked. The last time, her belly had ached from the water and she decided to move onwards as the land changed to a brighter shade of yellow.

 _There must be another stream, with colder and clearer water_ , she dreamed, her head pounding with every step.

 _It is a sunburn_ , she knew and giggled. _The blood of the dragon has a sunburn! So much for fire made flesh!”_

“Fly!” the crow croaked again and dipped lower, flying before her. “Fly! Fly! Fly!”

 _He is mocking me_ , she realized and too tired to curse. _Damn bird_.

Yet, she continued to walk until the sky was beginning to change again. This time a cobalt blue, but even this beautiful sight was nothing compared to the stream she found soon after.

“Fly!” the bird croaked and soared over the stream. “Fly!”

 _I am going mad_ , she thought as she waded into the waist-high water and dipped her head beneath the water. The cool water washed over her, cleaned her and eased her pain, but when she emerged again she felt still tired. Half-walking and half-crawling she moved back to the edge of the stream and sat down in the dry grass.

There, she drank as much water as she pleased. This one was cleaner and colder, the best water she had ever tasted.

All the while, the crows continued to fly their circles above her head.

Once, she was done she lay back and closed her eyes, unsure whether she would be able to open them again.

This time, she dreamed of her dead brother.

Viserys looked as she recalled him. His mouth was twisted in anguish, his hair burnt and his face was black and smoking where the molten gold had touched it.

“You are dead,” she whispered in disbelief.

 _Murdered_ , he seemed to whisper, but his lips never moved. _You never mourned me, sister._

“That is a lie,” she threw back. “I loved you once, but you betrayed me.”

 _Once_ , he whispered gain, his mouth unmoving. _You were supposed to be mine_ , _to bear me children with silver hair and purple eyes, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. I took care of you. I fed you. I even sold our mother’s crown to keep you fed_.

She shuddered at the memory. How sad Viserys had been and how he had hit her until her arm had been dotted with blue bruises.

“You hurt me.”

 _Only when you woke the dragon_ , he whispered back. _Only when you woke the dragon._

“You sold me like a common whore!” she couldn’t help but to snap back. “I meant nothing to you!”

_You betrayed me. You turned against your own blood. Your husband and his stinking band of savages lied to me. They promised me a golden crown and gave me this._

He touched the molten gold and smoke rose from his finger.

“You could have had your crown,” Dany lied and backed away. “If only you had shown a bit more patience.”

_I have waited long enough. I have waited my whole life. I was their King, their rightful King and they laughed at me._

_As they did with me_ , she knew and stood her ground. _And now my nephews have come to take this crown. One I love and one I mistrust. What would you have done, brother?_

 _They are false dragons_ , he whispered. _One more a wolf than a dragon and the other a mummer. You ought to kill them both, before they kill you, foolish sister._

Dany shuddered at that, the words of the Undying ringing in her ears.

_Once for gold, once for gold and once for love._

Her heart didn’t want to believe it.

“Lies!” she shouted and snapped her whip at him. “You were always lying to me! Begone!”

And within the blink of a moment he was gone, exchanged with another appearance she had not asked for.

 _You must go home_ , the gruff voice of Ser Jorah rang in her ears. _Your crown awaits._

He was right about that too. He had always given her good council, though he had betrayed her.

 _You are only lost, because you lingered in a place you were never mean to be_ , the gruff voice  rang in her ears, clear and loud. _And because you trusted that lying bastard._

“It was you who betrayed me, for gold,” she reminded him bitterly. “And for what?”

_For home. Like you. All I ever wanted was to go home._

“You wanted me in your bed,” Dany countered. “Because I look like a ghost of  woman you lost. That is why you hate Jon.”

_I gave you good counsel. I told you to save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms. Leave Meereen to the Meerenese, I told you. Again you would not listen._

“I had to take Meereen to feed my people,” she defended herself, but the words felt wrong.

_And you took Meereen and lingered._

“To be a Queen, to protect those I freed.”

It was half a lie.

“I am weary of war,” she spoke from the heart and searched for him in the swaying grass, but found only Quaithe. “I want to rest, to laugh. I want peace.”

_No, you are the blood of the dragon. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are. Remember your words._

“Fire and Blood,” she whispered back and lifted her whip. “I have seen enough of it to last for a lifetime. I only want to go home.”

Then, she snapped her whip and chased the masked woman away.

 _No man can escape fate_ , the voice whispered no more. _Not even dragons._

When she woke again she felt the hot burn of the sun on her skin and saw the crows still fly circles over her head.

Shaking, she sat up and swept her gaze over the grass to her back.

Suddenly, it started to move when it had no cause to do so.

She picked up her whip and rose to her feet.

With the soft tinkling of bells the green sea opened and a rider appeared.  His braid was black and shiny, his skin sun-kissed and his eyes black as obsidian.

Bells rang as he moved and watched the landscape.

 _A scout_ , Dany knew. He was one of those that rode before the khalasar to find game and foes alike.

She bit her lips in fear. If he found her he would kill her, rape her or enslave her. At best, he would send her back to the Dosh Khaleen.

He hadn’t seen her, though. The grass concealed her well and when a black shadow passed over her heart soared with happiness.

Frightened, the scout stood frozen for a long time, before he suddenly wheeled his mount around and disappeared in the swaying grass.

Dany had watched him go and not long after Drogon came towards here, the grass parting before him.

Dany didn’t hesitate to hop unto his back.

She snapped her whip and then the  dragon flew, though in the wrong direction.

As she soared, she spotted a vast herd of horse, fleeing from the dragon.

Soon, one horse lagged behind and Drogon descended upon it. At once, the animal was aflame, yet still running and screaming with every step until Drogon broke its back.

The carcass proved too heavy to carry him back to Drogon’s lair and thus the dragon started to consume his kill right there, tearing off charred flesh as the grass burned around them with a sizzling sound.

Dany, who was starved, slid from his back and tore a piece of smoking meat from the dead horse.

Her fingers burned as she chewed, the western sky changing to the color of a crimson bruise and the sound of horse hooves ringing in her ears.

She knew that they had come for her, but she felt no fear.

She had faced her brother and now she would face these ghosts as well.

…


	39. Brothers

**Jon**

Jon’s body ached as he turned to the side and pulled himself into a sitting position. Every time he moved, he felt a sharp pain surging through his body, where one of the Brazen Beasts had cut him open like a pig. Hours later, one of the healers from the Tempel of Graces had been called upon to stich him together, but his wound still pained him day and night. Sleep was even harder to find, though that had more to do with Dany’s absence.

_Soon_ , he reminded himself and pulled on his boots, before opening the door for his daily visitors. _Soon the bloodriders will return from the hinterlands and then I will be able to find her._

He tried to smile when his mother entered his chamber in company of Sansa. They came every day, because his mother had taken it upon herself to care for his wound.

Jon didn’t know what to think of that. All these years, he had wished for a mother to care for him like Lady Catelyn had cared for Robb and his other siblings, but he felt only resentment stirring inside him whenever his mother was trying to act motherly towards him.

It wasn’t like he didn’t understand her feelings for not wanting to wed Robert Baratheon, but even so she could have least tried to stay for his sake. Instead she had run away to raise his half-brother and had given him the love that had been meant for him.

It was a shameful thought, as his half-brother had lost much more than Jon, but the feeling of jealousy was always there, sizzling in the pit of his stomach.

“It is a bit early,” Jon remarked.

“I am an early riser,” Lady Lyanna replied and placed her tools on the nearby table. “And I knew I would find you awake. You are restless, aren’t you?”

Jon nodded his head in confirmation and gave Sansa a hesitant smile. It was much easier than to smile at his mother. They had never been particularly close, but Sansa had mostly ignored him while Lady Stark had never hidden her dislike for him.

“Ghost is also awake,” Jon offered and pointed at his loyal beast still curled beside his sleeping place. “I am sure he would be pleased to receive your attentions, sister.”

A real smile crossed over Sansa’s lips as she made her way over to Ghost and touched his furry head.

“Do you think he recalls me?” she asked and received a lick on the cheek as if to answer her question. “Well, there is my answer.”

She had laughed, but Jon had also heard he sadness ringing in her voice.

“You miss Lady,” he remarked, sat down on the stool facing the window and pulled off his tunic to reveal his bandaged side. “I wouldn’t know what to do without Ghost.”

“The wound healed well,” Sansa added and touched Ghost’s back where a Brazen Beast had tried to cut him open. “Direwolves are tenacious beasts.”

“I wish my wound would heal so quickly,” Jon added with a sigh and winced when his mother’s hand brushed over his scarred wound after she had removed the soiled bandages. “The bloodriders will return soon and I need to be able to sit a horse.”

“The cut was deep,” his mother countered unhappily. “You shouldn’t sit a horse for at least several weeks, but if you got my stubborn mind I doubt you will listen to my words.”

“No,” Jon replied curtly and was glad that they had found common ground. “Ser Jorah and I are going to leave once the bloodriders arrive.”

“The grim slaver?” his mother asked skeptically and put a few drops of strong grog on the white linen, before brushing it over his wound. The burning pain came instantly, but it was half as bad. Still, Jon gritted his teeth and his mother continued to frown. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Ser Jorah hates me,” Jon admitted. “But he knows these lands well and he is utterly loyal to Daenerys.”

“And yet she exiled him?” his mother asked, her eyebrows rising to the top of her head. “That makes no sense to me.”

Jon sighed and winced again when his mother started to wrap fresh linen bindings around his wound.

“You don’t have to fret,” he assured her again and patted Ghost’s head when he came to sniff on his hand. “Ghost will be with me.”

“And we will be stuck here,” Sansa added worriedly. “I had hoped we could go home soon.”

“We will go home,” Jon promised her. “Together.”

“How can you be so sure that Daenerys will come back?” his mother asked bluntly as ever and searched his face.

The question had taken him by surprise, fresh anger stirring inside him.

“How can you even say something like that? Of course, she is coming back!”

A pained expression washed over his mother’s long face.

“I didn’t mean to insult you, but it has been days and there has been no sign of her. Where could the dragon have taken her?”

“I don’t know,” Jon replied and shifted his attention to Sansa. “But I will find her. And when all is said and done here in Meereen, we will go home. I promise.”

“Robb will support you,” Sansa assured him again and smiled. “And my mother will be happy to have me back. You can even tell her the truth. Maybe it will ease her heart to hear that father didn’t betray their marriage vows.”

Jon had little hope in that regard. He expected nothing but cold looks from Lady Stark, though he doubted she would do it openly, especially if he had three dragons at his back.

Not that Jon cared about Lady Stark. She had wished upon him the fate of  cripple, but he couldn’t tell that to Sansa.

“Your mother will not be pleased to hear that Lord Eddard lied to her for all these years,” Jon countered. “I doubt knowing the truth is going to change how she feels about me. On the contrary, she will still think I am an oathbreaker and a danger to her family. Lord Eddard would have certainly supported King Stannis’ kingship.

Sansa’s face fell. She looked suddenly very pale and tears glittered in her eyes.

“I understand,” she added quietly. “Well, Robb will probably be upset with me once he hears what I did.”

Jon was confused and exchanged a quiet look with his mother, who had finished her work and was gathering her tools. An uncomfortable expression had washed over her face when he had spoken about Lady Catelyn.

It had given him a certain amount of satisfaction. He wanted her to know how much her absence had pained him, though he didn’t want to voice these thoughts in front of Sansa.

He had heard from Lord Tyrion that Sansa had been wed to Joff and that he had mistreated her. Whatever she had done in the past, it had been the actions of a silly girl who didn’t know better, but his mother had been a woman grown.

“Would you care to hear what I did?” Sansa asked almost fearfully. “It would help to ease my guilt.”

Jon gave her an encouraging nod.

“What did you do?”

Sansa averted her gaze and bit her lips.

“I sold out father,” she confessed in a trembling voice. “I told Queen Cersei about his plans of leaving King’s Landing. I was such a stupid girl and in the end I got what I wanted…my horrid marriage to Joff. He was a monster.”

Jon shuddered at the thought. He didn’t even want to imagine Joff touching his sister or any other girl.

“I was also stupid,” he added and leaned over to squeeze her hand. “I should have left the Wall the moment I realized what kind of place it was . I should I have asked Robb to let me stay in Winterfell. I was just too proud to ask.”

“That wasn’t all I did, though,” Sansa added and lifted her tear-streaked gaze. “Good men died for my foolishness and Arya…only the gods know where she is. And my friend Jeyne Poole. I don’t even know if she is still alive.”

“Arya is alive,” Jon assured her quickly. “I know it.”

“That you cannot know,” Sansa replied sadly. “But thank you. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Stop saying that,” his mother interrupted tensely. “We all do foolish things when we are young and reckless. I am sure your brother will forgive you.”

“Like Lord Eddard forgave you?” Jon asked and was unable to hide his bitterness. “By stealing your child.”

His mother froze and averted her gaze, staring to play with the hem of her dress.

“Perhaps you are right,” she agreed and rose to her feet. She looked as if she was fleeing from  him. “I do not know Ned’s son well enough to be able to make such assumptions.”

Then, she jerked her head at Sansa.

“We should leave. Jon has work to do, doesn’t he?”

Jon nodded his head in confirmation. He had to consult with Ser Barristan, Jorah, Daario and Greyworm. Knowing them it would be another tense conversation, but at least his half-brother had decided to stay away for now.

When he entered the council chamber he found Ser Barristan surrounded by Dany’s advisors and seated on the wooden bank she had made her throne.

Jon and Greyworm had agreed that Ser Barristan should act as Dany’s Hand of the Queen until her return, though the old knight had refused at first.

_I am a knight_ , he had told Jon. _You are the Queen’s only kin. You should sit here._

Jon had laughed at that, but not because he didn’t think himself capable enough. What the old knight had said was also true, but Meereen was different from Westeros. Dany ruled here not because of her blood, but because the freedmen chose to follow her and because she had the men necessary to conquer Slaver’s Bay.

Thus, Ser Barristan had become the Hand of the Queen and looked as uncomfortable on that wooden bank as Maegor the Cruel must have felt seated atop the Iron Throne.

“Forgive my delay,” Jon apologized when he noticed that the others were already assembled. “Did I miss something?”

“The Unsullied have taken all nobles under house arrest,” Greyworm explained. “But there are still Harpies roaming the city and causing havoc. The freedmen have armed themselves and only yesterday five more attacks have taken place. I have my Unsullied patrol the streets, but I fear for them.  The Queen’s absence makes them brave.”

Jon was not surprised and turned to look at Daario. “What about the Shavepate? Were you able to make him speak?”

“He is keeping silent,” Daario replied and bared his golden teeth. “I tried my best, but had I gone further he would have died.”

“And this Hizdahr and the Green Grace?” Ser Jorah inquired grim as ever. He disliked Daario just as much as Jon. So much was obvious. “Were you able to make them speak?”

“Hizdhar spilled the beans without hesitation, but gave us no new information. The Green Grace I didn’t touch. Jon demanded it,” Daario explained.

“Why is that?” Jorah demanded to know, his voice laced with contempt. “Why was that woman spared? Didn’t her healers poison the locust that made Strong Belwas sick and that was meant for the Queen?”

“Probably,” Daario added and stroked his beard. “That is at least what Hizdahr told us.”

“She is a religious figure,” Jon explained and didn’t flinch away from meeting Ser Jorah’s piercing gaze. The Old Bear Jon had loved and respected, but Ser Jorah was a man that woke only ambivalent feelings in him. He was loyal to Dany, so much Jon knew, but he also saw Jon as an enemy. Best would be to kill him, but Jon owed him a debt for helping him fight the Brazen Beasts. “Killing Green Grace would make the current situation only more heated. It would stir the citizens to munity and rage.”

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan agreed, who had listened to their exchange in silence. “Important is that we keep control over the city until the Queen returns to us. Let us hope the bloodriders can help us find her.”

“It could take weeks to find her,” Daario countered. “And what is if she is really dead? Who could succeed her?”

Ser Barristan exchanged a telling look with Jon, who told Daario what he had told his mother this very morning.

“Daenerys will return. Drogon wouldn’t harm his own mother. I know it.”

“Jon of Winterfell speaks true,” Greyworm added firmly. “The Queen will return and until then the Unsullied shall keep the peace.”

Not long after, Ser Barristan dismissed the others from his presence and asked Jon to stay.

“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” he explained and waved his hand at the door where two Unsullied stood at their honorary positions.

“What do you wish to speak about?” Jon inquired politely as he shifted his attention to his half-brother and Lord Connington. “If it is about the Daenerys then I will have to disappoint you. We still have no information about her whereabouts.”

“What have you been doing the last three days?” Aegon asked in obvious frustration. “Why didn’t you send out men to search for her?”

“The lands beyond Meereen are vast. We are going to search for her once the bloodriders are here. They will know where to look,” Jon explained and tried his best to keep his composure. Neither his half-brother nor Prince Quentyn had hesitated to run away when the battle in Daznak’s pit had raged around them. And now they were suddenly interested in Dany’s safety. It was hypocrisy of the finest sort, but he shouldn’t voice these thoughts openly in front of potential allies.

“It is true,” Ser Barristan assured Aegon. “The Dothraki should be of great help in finding the Queen. And we have been occupied with other problems. The Queen’s disappearance has stirred up the slavery supporters.”

“And how long do you think will it take until she returns, good Ser?” Aegon asked and looked only at Ser Barristan. “The Golden Company is waiting for me.”

“The Golden Company will wait as long as Illyrio pays them enough, your Grace,” Lord Connington explained cautiously and touched Aegon’s shoulder. “Finding your Aunt should be our first priority.”

“Ser Barristan and Jon Snow have yet to answer my question,” his brother returned and pushed his hand away. His bluish eyes burned with anger when he met Jon’s gaze. “How long will it take to find her?”

“As long as necessary,” Jon returned icily. “You have waited for eighteen long years. I am sure you can wait for  another few moons, brother.”

“Don’t call me that!” Aegon snapped back, his voice filled with disgust. “Your mother was seducing my father while _my_ mother and sister were imprisoned in King’s Landing. You may or may not be born from my father’s seed, but you are _not_ my brother.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Connington added hesitatingly. “I do not think that Jon Snow is lying. Prince Rhaegar was very infatuated with the Stark girl and his marriage to your mother…As I told you before…it was a marriage of duty.”

“Marriage of duty or not,” Aegon scoffed. “Lyanna Stark is a whore.”

Jon had yet to make up his mind about his mother, but that was too much.

“Call my mother a whore once more and you will kiss the wall!” the threat had spilled out of his mouth before Jon had been able to stop himself.

Aegon’s eyes narrowed in anger and his hand brushed over his sword belt. “Are you threatening your King?”

Jon couldn’t help but to scoff and imitated the gesture as he stepped closer.

“King of what? A pole-boat in Volantis? Without Daenerys’s help nobody will believe you.”

“My cousin does and so will my Uncle,” Aegon countered heatedly. “Well, I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised by your lack of manners. You were raised as a lowly bastard, were you not?”

Anger had flashed in front of Jon’s eyes and within the blink of a moment he had grabbed his brother by his tunic and had pulled him towards him, their breath mingling.

“Aye, I was raised as a lowly bastard but at least I am not an ungrateful little shit like you…,” Jon had spat back at him and would have probably done more had Ser Barristan not pulled him away.

“How dare you!” Aegon snarled angrily, his face deeply flushed as he was pulled backwards by Lord Connington. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“I only gave you the truth,” Jon couldn’t help but to stir the flames anew. It filled him with a kind of pleasure he hadn’t known before. “My mother raised you and loved you and all you show her is contempt. She shouldn’t have wasted her time with an ungrateful little shit like you!”

Aegon didn’t hold back his rage and was suddenly struggling hard against Lord Connigton’s grip.

“And without your whore of a mother my own mother would still be alive!” his brother shouted at the top of his lungs, his eyes wet with tears.

Jon couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“You act as if our father’s cock accidently found its way between my mother’s legs,” Jon taunted him. “He was just as much at fault. Do not excuse him because you derive your legitimacy from him. And it was Lord Tywin Lannister who gave the order, not my mother.”

“A dead man,” Aegon seethed with anger. “How can I take revenge against a dead man?”

“The Mountain is still alive, your Grace,” Lord Connington added Aegon’s. “And I have to agree with Jon Snow. Trying to put blame on someone won’t help our cause. Prince Rhaegar would have wanted his sons to work together.”

At last, Aegon calmed and stopped his struggle, as did Jon.

Jon felt suddenly very tired and his head was pounding.

“I need to rest,” he told Ser Barristan and left. He had wasted enough of his energy for today. “I will need my strength.”

…


	40. The Stallion

**Daenerys**

When the Dothraki had stared to shoot arrows at Drogon he had unleashed a current of flames upon the Dothraki warriors. A dozen of horses and Dothraki warriors had been devoured by the hot flames, their screams echoing in her ears. This spectacle had repeated itself over and over again, but when another hundred thousand of men had appeared, Dany had raised her hands and had commanded Drogon to leave. Arrows certainly couldn’t kill a dragon, but he had already suffered enough through the spears of the Brazen Beasts, his right wing still tattered and sometimes bleeding.

_Drogon will come back for me anyway. I know it. I just need to buy myself a bit of time._

“I know you,” the Dothraki scout that had discovered Drogon shouted at her. He was a relatively young man, but his braid was long and littered with numerous bells. They rang softly as he climbed from his horse, his dark eyes searching her face. “You are Khal Drogo’s Khaleesi.”

Dany nodded her head and brushed the grime from her lips. The food had helped her to regain her strength, but her feet felt still wobbly. Her mind was also torn on what to say. If she denied the obvious truth they would rape her and if she told them the truth they would drag her to the Dosh Khaleen.

The second choice seemed much more pleasant. From the Dosh Khaleen she could flee and it would keep her far away from Khal Jhaqo. He had always hated her, but even a Khal was not allowed to touch a Dosh Khaleen. Such was the law of the Dothraki.

“That I am,” she confirmed in Dothraki and straightened herself. She tried to appear queenly, but that was hard when her clothes were tattered and her face covered in grime. “Do I know you?”

“I am Haquo,” the young man explained and lowered his head in reverence. “I am ko to Khal Jhaqo. When you were still Khal Drogo’s  Khaleesi I was only a common warrior. Have you come to return to your place among the Dosh Khaleen?”

 “I have,” she confirmed and forced a smile over her lips. “I have. I have realized my folly and wish to repent.”

The young man seemed to approve of her actions and shifted his attention to one of the older bloodriders.

“You heard the Khaleesi,” Haquo said. “She has need of a horse. She is coming with us.”

“The foreign whore shall have a horse,” a familiar and cruel voice added. It was Mago, who had joined Jhaqo not long after Drogo had dropped from his horse. He was no friend of her and the savage curling on his lips unsettled her. “But Khal Jhaqo will want to question her.”

“I shall be honored,” Dany replied and cast a quick glance at the sky. The sun was bright and hot, but Drogon was nowhere to be seen. Yet, she believed to feel his presence. He would follow her. She was sure about it.

Not long after, one of the younger bloodriders yielded his stead to her, though she doubted he was pleased about that. Dothraki were as close with their horses as the dragonlords of old were with their dragons. A dragon only chose one rider and a Dothraki usually took his horse to the grave.

It made her long for her Silver, but it was better than to walk on foot.

“Your stallion abandoned you,” Mago scoffed with distain as he rode behind her, his hand brushing over his curved blade. It was a warning. “We scared the beast.”

_He is a dragon_ , she wanted to correct him, but that would make her situation only worse. He was only waiting for a provocation. Thus, she decided to play along.

“I have not yet properly mounted him,” she explained and averted her gaze. Haquo was watching her as well, but more with an expression of worry than dislike.

“And now you never will,” Mago added. “A Dosh Khaleen has no use for stallions.”

“Leave her be,” he warned Mago. “Or Drogo’s ghost will come to curse you.”

“Drogo is a pile of ash and died because she allowed the witch to attend to him,” Mago grumbled accusingly, his dark eyes as black as the night. “He could have been the Khal of Khals, but you had to break our traditions and allowed the witch to kill him. Then, you even sacrificed his son. If I had a say in this, I would plough your field until you bleed to death, but I am only a ko and no Khal. Mayhaps Khal Jhaqo will know what to do with you. I certainly would enjoy hearing you scream.”

Dany shuddered and clenched her teeth in defiance. Mago had been the cruelest among Drogo’s bloodriders. He had raped and murdered the girl she had tried to save. He was a monster.

“Khal Jhaqo would not dare to touch her,” Haquo added. “You know what they say about fucking a Dosh Khaleen. Your cock will wither away. I doubt the Khal would risk such a fate.”

Mago scoffed. “You are even more superstitious than Jhaqo’s Khaleesi. “

Then, he galloped away to join the head of the column of riders.

Dany sighed  in relief, but she knew that was only the beginning of a dangerous journey.

At midday, they arrived at the camp, beneath a hill. In the distance she could see the glimmer of a silver stream, but otherwise not much more than the swaying grass of the Dothraki Sea.

Everywhere she looked riders had gathered around steaming cookfires on which they were roasting meat and other delicacies she had missed. It made her suddenly crave for fermented milk and honey.

Haquo and three others led her through the bustling camp. Children ran wild as they passed hundreds of tents and the smell of spice and horse was filling her nose. It was a familiar smell and brought back memories, some of them happy and others sad.

They stopped at a painted tent and Haquo informed her that this would be her sleeping place for the night.

The tent was not overly furnished. There was a carpet on the floor and an oil lamp. A young slave woman was also called upon to bring her fresh clothing, a simple green wool tunic which she fastened with a leather belt and a pair of leggings and sandals. She also wished for a brush, but that was too much to ask and the food they brought her was much more welcome. She devoured the bowl of fruits and sweet grass greedily, before emptying two bowls of fermented horse milk. Strangely, it helped her to settle her stomach and not long after she curled atop the carpet and was claimed by her exhaustion.

This time she dreamed of her dragons. They were screaming for her in their prison of darkness…

Barely a few hours later, she was woken by a rough pull on her shoulder.

It was Mago.

“Khal Jhaqo wishes for your company.”

Dany swallowed hard, but didn’t hesitate to follow . She was relieved to find Haquo  among the men that had accompanied Mago.

She doubted he would help her escape, but he seemed very dedicated to the Dothraki laws and perhaps he had respected Drogo enough to consider taking her side if it came to the worst.

The Khal’s tent had been erected on a hill. It was huge and made of horse leather. Inside it smelled of incense, oils, cinnamon and dried sweet grass. In the middle of the room stood a large iron jar in which a fire was burning in colors of orange, gold and red.

Around the fire sat twenty men. The Khal’s bloodriders.

The Khal himself was seated atop a large wooden throne. His face was sharp, a big red scar running from his right ear all down to his chin and his long inky hair was neatly braided and decorated with bells of silver and gold.

His dark eyes flashed with recognition when his gaze fell upon her.

“So, it is true. Drogo’s wayward Khaleesi has returned.”

“I have come to join the Dosh Khaleen,” she lied.

“A foreign whore like her shouldn’t be sent to the Dosh Khaleen,” Mago added coldly. “She does not respect our traditions. Khal Drogo was a fool to wed her. She only brought death and destruction over his khalasar. Give her to me and I will make quick work of her after I have enjoyed myself.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Khal Jhaqo grunted in displeasure. “She was a Khaleesi. The Dosh Khaleen approved of her…they called her son the Stallion that Mounts the World.”

“Old hags that read in tea leaves,” Mago scoffed. “Khal Drogo listened to them and look where it brought him. He thought he would conquer the world beyond the poisonous waters and died a humiliating death.”

“I burned the witch for her crime,” Dany countered, deciding to try a different approach . “And prophecies are a dangerous thing. My dead son was not the stallion, but I have a living and breathing dragon. Mayhaps by mounting him I can fulfil the prophecy. You could be part of this, the Dothraki could be part of this. I wish to retake my father’s crown and have need of able warriors.”

Khal Jhaqo laughed and rose to his feet, making his way towards her. “I thought you wanted to be a Dosh Khaleen? It seems your tongue is as silver as your hair. Ah, you are beautiful. I understand why Drogo wanted you in his bed, but your pretty silver cunt wasn’t the only reason. You are of the blood of the dragonlords and Drogo always dreamed of greater things. He wanted to be the Khal of Khals, that would one day unite all khalasars as one. A worthy dream, but I have to agree with Mago…it was not worth it in the end, was it?”

Dany knew then that she couldn’t expect any help from him, but she tried once more to convince him.

“My son died,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t have trusted the witch, but I meant well.”

Then, she glared at Mago. “And that makes me not any less of a Khaleesi. There are still bloodriders that follow me. They are in Meereen and are well cared for. I reward my allies well. If you do not wish to cross the sea I could offer you something else. The Slaver Cities I have taken for my own, but they have need of protection, of men capable holding them against the slavers. Isn’t that a tempting idea? Take the riches of the nobles and grow fat and old?”

Something had changed in Jhaqo’s demeanor after she had said this.

“There is always a price. Name it?”

“You must give up slavery and pillaging. That is my price. In return your people will receive a place to prosper.”

Khal Jhaqo started to laugh again and swept his gaze over the assembled bloodriders.

“Did you hear her? She wants me to become a chained dog. A dog. Is Jhaqo a chained dog?”

The bloodriders howled with laughter and Dany knew she had lost this struggle.

“You will go to the Dosh Khaleen,” he informed her bluntly after the laughing had died down and threw a cold glance at Mago. “Touch her and I will cut off your cock. I hold no love for her, but Drogo was my equal. Disrespecting his widow means to disrespect the laws of our people.”

Mago’s dark eyes pierced into hers as he lowered his head.

“Of course, my Khal.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Davos


	41. White Harbour

**Robb**

White Harbour was a clean and well-ordered city with straight cobbled streets that made it easy to move around. The houses were made of whitewashed stone and had steeply-pitched roofs of dark grey slate. The walls surrounding the city were thick and well-fortified as any city in the south.

Robb had visited White Harbour only once when he was a young boy of eight, but he remembered only bits and pieces.

The sun lurking over the walls, its bright beams pleasant to the eye as was the pink sky that spread above them. The ride from the Neck to White Harbour had been rather unpleasant, full of rain and bogs and later two stormy nights that had made it hard to build a fortified camp.

The Greatjon, Lord Glover, Maege Mormont and Roose Bolton had advised Robb to march for Winterfell, but he had refused. Roslin was with child and he didn’t want her to force to live in a burned-down ruin. Once Winterfell was returned to its former glory he would send her there, but until this matter was taken care of she would be a honored guest in Lord Manderly’s home.

Robb doubted Lord Manderly would refuse him. What little he recalled of him gave Robb the impression that he would be welcoming to anyone of Stark blood.

“It simply beautiful!” Roslin’s excited voice rang in his ears and caused him to turn his head. Like Robb she was seated on a horse, though she looked much different now as she had lowered her thick brown pelt and wore a warmer dress made of dark wool and inlaid with fur. Even her hair looked different. It was braided atop of her head and her face was hidden behind her shawl, which he had pulled down to be able to speak to Robb. “And it smells like salt and storm.”

“Fishy would be a more accurate description,” Olyvar Frey added cheerfully. Next to him rode the mighty Smalljon, who loomed over the lanky young man like a giant and a bit further behind followed Dacey Mormont. She was a tall and lean beauty with black hair and always carried her axe wherever she went. Robb had yet to find anyone among these men that would ever dare to show him disrespect.

That was until Lord Bolton had brought Halys Karstark before him, who had been freed by the same Lord Bolton after he had retaken Harrenhall in Robb’s name. He was a solemn young man with a long face that betrayed his Stark blood, though his eyes were blue instead of grey.

 _He looks more like a Stark than me,_ Robb realized and thought of Jon. His brother had inherited the Stark looks, but wasn’t even his father’s son. Truly, it was a mad world they lived in. _And he hates me for killing Lord Rickard._

It wasn’t like Robb had had much of a choice. The man had not only tried to murder a valuable hostage, but had also refused to take the black. Pardoning him would have made Robb appear weak. Even so, he doubted that Halys Karstark cared about Robb’s reasoning. He had lost half his family to Robb’s war. He had every reason to hate him.

 _Yet I am still his lord_ , Robb reminded himself and shifted his attention to Roslin. She was smiling at him warmly and pointed at the strange street that loomed before them. It was called Castle Stair, Robb recalled vaguely and was a broad stone way that lead up from the Wolf’s Den to the New Castle, located on a hill overlooking the stormy sea below. It was there where Lord Manderly’s guardsmen awaited them and took hold of their horses. They looked like mermen, their cloaks striped white and turquoise and armed with spears that looked like tridents.

“Welcome Lord Stark,” the Captain of the Guards greeted them. “Lord Manderly awaits.”

He led them up the broad stairs, marble mermaids lighting their way, bowls of burning whale oil cradled in their arms. From atop here one had an even more beautiful look at the harbors, but they had no time to linger, for a sharp wind was blowing from the north. Roslin had yet to get used to the icy winds of his lands north and he didn’t want her to get sick.

The Merman’s Court, the great hall of the New Castle, was as colorful as his childlike mind recalled. Its walls, floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks notched cunningly together and decorated with all kinds of fearsome sea creatures. The floors and walls were even more colorful. It was painted with crabs, clams and starfish, half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls he found pale sharks prowling painted blue-green depths, whilst eels and octopods were slithering amongst rocks and sunken ships. Higher up, he saw fisher nets spread over the rafters and to the right a war galley and the sinking sun. To Robb it looked more like a harbor than a feasting hall.

“Is the food to your liking, Lord Stark?” Lord Manderly asked. He was a man of sixty and so fat that he was no longer able to ride a horse which had earned him the name Lord Too-Fat-to-sit-a-horse. Yet, he was an amiable man with a shrewd mind or that is at least what his Lord Father had always told him. “Your plate is still full.”

The food he was serving was impressive. They had boiled eggs, capons, roasted eels, lampreys, delicious pork pies, sweetened porridge and all sorts of different sausages which Lord Manderly had ordered from the Free Cities.

Robb had tasted everything enthusiastically and so had his men, but there was always more and more being offered to him and he had no intention to reach as full as a form as his generous host.

“On the contrary,” Robb assured him and watched with satisfaction as Roslin was shoveling a piece of tart into her mouth, Lord Manderly’s granddaughters smiling and laughing with her. They seemed just as pleasant as their grandfather, though the green hair looked rather odd on the younger one. Wylla was her name, he recalled now. “I was delicious…and it seems my men enjoy your bitter ale even more. Well, my wife enjoys your tarts.”

“That is good to hear,” the old man replied with a smile. “I am just trying to make sure that your heir will be a fat and healthy babe.”

Robb didn’t want to think about that. Roslin was such a fragile girl. Pushing out a fat and healthy babe would most likely tear her apart, but then Lord Manderly probably meant well.

“I hope so,” Robb replied and took a sip from his cup as he continued to watch his men. They were in a good mood, drinking and singing songs, their loud voices echoing over the Merman’s Court. They were acting as if they had already re-taken the North, but the contrary was the case. The Ironborn still held Deepwood Motte. “My brothers are dead. I need a son to succeed me.”

Suddenly, Lord Manderly’s demeanor changed, his blueish gaze wandering over Robb’s face.

He smiled and tapped his finger on the table, indicating for Robb to lean closer.

Robb complied.

“About that, my Lord. I have made a curious discovery, but we shouldn’t speak about this while our men are celebrating.”

Robb’s heart had nearly stopped when he had heard this.

“Why not?” he asked impatiently. “If you know something…,” he trailed off when Lord Manderly started to shake his head.

“Not here, my Lord. This should be spoken about in private. Later, if it pleases you. Now you should rest and enjoy your feast.”

That was easier said than done, but Robb managed to bridge the time as best of possible. The ale and the song of the men certainly helped.

“You look tired,” Roslin remarked later and touched is cheek. Her hands were cold, but her smile was as bright as the summer sun. “You should rest. Speak to Lord Manderly on the morrow. I am sure he will understand.”

“I can’t,” Robb replied and squeezed her hand. Then, he leaned closer and kissed her chastely, first on the cheek and then on the mouth. It would be so easy to lose himself to her embrace, but he was eager to consult Lord Manderly about his “curious discovery”. “But I won’t stay long. Go to bed if you like.”

Roslin looked disappointed, but accepted his wish. “As you wish, but I will be waiting for you.”

Then, she angled her head and pointed at Greywind, who lay seated beside the large hearth.  “Greywind will keep me company while you are gone.”

Robb was not surprised by her answer. She had always been drawn to his wolf, though it had taken its good time until Greywind had warmed up to her. He had never liked strangers, but it seemed the fact that she was carrying his child helped.

“Greywind will bore you to death. He is sleepy,” he remarked and walked over to pat the wolf’s head. His loyal beast yawned and went back to sleep.

Not long after, Robb left Roslin and sought out Lord Manderly’s solar.

He was already waiting for him with two cups of summerwine and a serious expression, so unlike the cheerful smiles he had carried all day.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” he said and sent the servant out of the room. “I have bad and good tidings for you, my Lord.”

“I assumed so much,” Robb replied, his heartbeat speeding up as she watched Lord Manderly shove a folded parchment over the table. “What are these bad tidings you speak of?”

“Read,” Lord Manderly said. “Read my Lord.”

Robb followed his advice and unfolded the piece of paper. He soon understood what Lord Manderly had meant with bad tidings. The letter had been written by the hand of the Maester of Castle Black, asking for assistance against the Wildlings. That the letter was several weeks old scared him even more. He not only worried about his Lord Father, but also his people. A horde of Wildlings marching south was the last thing he needed now.

“Did you answer the call to arms?” Robb asked.

“I sent a hundred men and encouraged the others lords to do the same, but I do not know if they made it in time. The storms are growing worse by each passing day. You can only imagine how hesitant they were. Most preferred to keep their men at home to guard their keeps. The roads are no longer safe which brings me to my next point.”

Robb nodded his head and took a sip from his cup. “Continue.”

“Very well,” Lord Manderly replied and pursed his lips. “Have you heard about the sad fate of Lady Hornwood?”

Robb had, but he didn’t know the details.

“She was killed, wasn’t she?”

“The bastard of Bolton killed her,” Lord Manderly added. “He seized her, forced her to marry him and locked her up in her own home until she died of starvation. He now calls himself Lord Hornwood.”

Robb shuddered after he heard these gruesome details.

“I shall take his head for this. He helped my cause by killing the Ironborn men at Winterfell, but a rapist is a rapist. Well, he is also Lord Bolton’s only living son. A bastard at that, but Lord Bolton’s marriage to Lady Walda is still young and there is no certainty he will have another heir. I will have need of his men, even if I mistrust him. I fear I am in a difficult situation.”

“Soon you will find yourself in an even more difficult situation,” Lord Manderly added sadly. “Now to the good tidings. There is a great possibility that your brothers are still alive.”

Robb gave him a look of disbelief. “How is that possible? Ser Roderik’s last letter to my mother was quite clear.”

“There is a man named Wex Pyke who survived the sack of Winterfell. He was Theon Greyjoy’s squire. He cannot speak, but he indicated through his chalk writings that Ramsay Snow was in truth the person who sacked Winterfell and that Wex followed a boy, a woman and a direwolf after they left the castle. The woman was called Osha and she supposedly took young Lord Rickon to Skagos. I do not know where they took Lord Brandon, but one can assume that he is also alive.”

It was not hard to understand the implications of what Lord Manderly had just told him. This Ramsay was not only a vicious murderer and rapist, but he was also a traitor.

Though that didn’t solve Robb’s dilemma. Roose Bolton was a shady man, but was far away from the North when his bastard son was committing these crimes. On top of that, he had retaken Harrenhall for him and had freed Halys Karstark, whom Robb needed to keep the Karstark men in control. Ramsay needed to die, but it would be unjust to kill Lord Roose for the crimes his son committed, though Robb had a hard time believing that he had no connection to these incidents. House Bolton was never a true ally to House Stark and Roose Bolton was and always will be a dangerous man.

“Skagos, you say,” Robb sighed and brushed his hands over his face. “That is a dangerous place. I know no one who would be willing enough to go there.”

“I would recommend sending the Mormont men,” Lord Manderly advised. “They know how to talk to Wildlings. The people there are of a similar kind, only more dangerous. I could offer you my best ship. The Stormwhipper. It is freshly build and could make it there within a few weeks.”

“A good idea,” Robb agreed and took a heavy gulp from his cup. He should feel relieved to hear about his brother’s survival, but he felt only more anxious. Bran was still missing and he had a possible Wildling invasion to deal with. It felt as if the gods were conspiring against him by throwing more and more obstacles at him. “I thank you, but I must ask another favor of you.”

Lord Manderly smiled kindly and nodded his head agreement.

“Of course.”

“Do not tell anyone about my brothers until I have dealt with the bastard of Bolton.”

“Of course,” Lord Manderly agreed. “My lips are sealed, but if I may ask…How do you intend to get him? I doubt Lord Bolton is going to hand him over.”

“I could demand it,” Robb replied. “But that would displease Roose Bolton. And I have no time for infighting between my men. That is why I intend to send a small group of men to capture him while Roose Bolton will be tasked to prove himself useful. He captured Harrenhall from the enemy and now he can retake Deepwood Motte. That way I can also keep him away from me. After what you told me I cannot trust the man anylonger.”

“A wise choice,” Lord Manderly agreed. “And the Wildlings?”

“I have no other choice. I must assemble my men and march for the Wall. The Ironborn are much less of a threat than these Wildlings. I can’t have them march south.”

…


	42. How to tame a dragon

**The Sun's Son**

Quentyn was restless, his mind a storm of confusion. All night he had been staring at the ceiling, trying to prepare himself mentally.

At last, he had given up and had gone to the solar to pour himself a cup of wine. The taste was sweet and pleasant and soon he had another cup.

As he continued to drink, he stared at the candle, an idea blooming in his mind.

As if led by an invisible force he placed his palm above the flame.

The pain came as sure as the summer heat.

“What are you doing, cousin?” Aegon’s voice echoed in his ears. First he was only a shifting shadow, but now he was suddenly standing in front of Quentyn, his face a halo of light.

He looked just like Quentyn had imagined a Targaryen Prince to look like. Silver-haired and purple-eyed, like Princess Daenerys and yet he hardly knew this boy.

_Yet, you agreed to his plan._

“Nothing,” Quentyn stuttered and blushed profusely as flexed his burned hand. ”I just....”

“You burned your hand,” Aegon countered, his voice laced in disbelief. “Why?”

“I…I couldn’t find any sleep,” Quentyn stuttered gain.

“And that is why you place your hand in the flames?” Aegon asked and shook his head in disbelief. “No, that was not the true reason, was it?”

“No,” Quentyn admitted finally and lifted his head to look at him. “There is a saying…fire cannot kill a dragon. I was being foolish.”

“Plenty of Targaryens burned,” Aegon remarked in obvious amusement. At times he could be as light-hearted as his Uncle Oberyn, but at other times he could be rather gloomy. Prince Rhaegar was said to be melancholic. Maybe that was the proof Quentyn was searching for…

“That is so,” Quentyn agreed and took another sip from his cup. ”One supposedly drank wildfire.”

“Aerion was his name,” Aegon told him. “He was as mad as my grandfather, though I doubt he was as much as a monster. My Aunt is born of his seed. Do you think she could become like him?”

The question confused Quentyn. The Princess had made no cruel impression on him. In fact, she had been very polite to him until he had insulted her o _ther_ nephew.

“I don’t think so. Besides, your father was also born from King Aerys’s seed. My Uncle Oberyn holds not much love for your father, but I have never heard him refer to Prince Rhaegar as mad.”

“Not mad then,” Aegon granted him. “But a second Rhaenyera in the making. She has been playing a game with me. I do not trust her word nor that of my supposed half-brother. She wants the throne for herself. That is quite clear.”

Quentyn didn’t understand why he was telling him all this. It was clear that Aegon was the rightful heir. That is if he truly was Prince Rhaegar’s son and heir. Lord Jon Connington certainly believed it, but Quentyn couldn’t be completely sure until his Uncle had laid eyes on Aegon. Only his father and Uncle would be able to tell him if Aegon was their sister’s son.

 _The dragon might reveal the truth to me much earlier_ , Quentyn realized and forced a smile over his lips. _Only then will I be able to decide on mx next step._

“Certainly, cousin. You are the rightful heir.”

“Will my Uncles say the same?” Aegon asked in a strangely sad tone. “I am both excited and afraid to meet him.”

“My Lord Father and Uncle Oberyn will be pleased to meet you,” Quentyn assured him. “But first we need to get away from here alive.”

“I am the blood of the dragon,” Aegon replied confidently. “If one of the dragons allows my Aunt to ride him it should be no problem for me to do the same, though I think I will settle for the pale one. He seems the most welcoming.”

 _I hope so_ , Quentyn thought fearfully, but kept these thoughts to herself. _I don’t want to die._

“I am confident you will succeed, cousin,” he replied instead. “But do you really think it wise to leave like this? Princess Daenerys will be cross with you for sure.”

“She will be,” Aegon agreed. “But she might see reason once I have taken the crown and have proven my worth. Truly, I should have never come here. Instead I should have sailed home and taken the crown.”

“But then we wouldn’t have met,” Quentyn argued and emptied the last bits of wine into his throat. “People will not simply bow down to you once you arrive. It will be a hard fight for sure, cousin. And Dorne isn’t as strong as you believe. We will need other allies.”

“I understand,” Aegon replied and pointed at the cup. “And now I would like to have a bit of wine. To calm my mind.”

Quentyn returned his smile.

“Certainly.”

By the time, the hour of the wolf had come and gone, Aegon had drained his cup and rain had started to pour from the sky. Quentyn could hear the slashing sound outside while they were breaking their fast, a simple meal of fruits and dark bread, washed down with a cup of honeyed milk.

It was still pre-dawn when they met up with Aegon and his protector, a hunk of a man named Ser Rolly Duckfield. Lord Connington they had left in the dark about their intentions, because Aegon believed he would stop him from their folly. Quent had brought his friends Gerris and Archibald, who had stolen the garb of the Unsullied to pull off their planned mummery.

Drink had first scoffed at the idea. _I do not want to play a cockless man. Does their amour even provide for a common man’s built?_

Well, Quentyn had managed to convince him eventually, but he was not wrong. The Unsullied’s armor was really a bit tight around certain places he didn’t want to talk about.

The thought alone made him blush.

The Unsullied usually carried spears, but Quent had also asked for another tool, which Arch had kindly gotten for him. A whip, a nasty piece of old leather with a handle of brass and bone.

“For me?” Aegon asked and smiled warmly. “That was wise of you to think of. Even during the times of Old Valyria, whips were used to tame dragons, though they were supposedly magical.”

“Well, this one is common, but it will hopefully serve its purpose,” Quentyn replied and handed him the whip.

Aegon coiled the whip and fastened it on his belt.

It proved difficult to enter the Great Pyramid at night. The doors were barred each day at sunset and usually remained closed until dawn. Guards, mostly Unsullied, were posted at every entrance and more guards were constantly patrolling the lowest terrace, where they had a good look on the street. It wouldn’t be easy to kill them, but Arch, Gerris and Rolly were good fighters. He hoped it would be enough.

The watch changed when the sun was casting its first rays of crimson sunlight over the colorful walls of Meereen, which reminded him of a rainbow.

The sight made him think of a children’s tale in which a boy followed a rainbow and found a basket of gold on the other side.

It was a silly thought, but he hoped that there were good things waiting for them at the end of this rainbow. They walked a long time, the sound of their boots echoing in his ears.

The Great Pyramid’s main gates led to Meereen’s central plaza, but they entered through the side entrance opening to an alley. It were the gates the slaves had used in the past to attend to their master’s needs.

The doors were made of bronze and closed with an iron bar. As expected, they found two Unsullied standing guard before the door. They were armed with spears, short swords and shield.

The shadows hid Arch’s full form well. Quentyn and Aegon watched from the distance as Rolly and Gerris marched towards the men, imitating the stiff gait of the Unsullied. They had trained two days, but even so their mummery was lacking.

It seemed the shadows had concealed their shadows well.

Aegon spoke the best Valyrian, but Rolly had declared that he wouldn’t allow him to endanger his life.

Thus, Rolly addressed the Unsullied.

“You are too early,” a silver haired boy said in the stiff tone of the Unsulllied.

Quentyn felt as if his heart was about to jump out of his chest as their fate was hanging on a silver thread.

“We were told to come,” Rolly replied indifferently. “These two will leave then.”

“No,” the other Unsullied, a sun-kissed man with dark eyes replied. He was older than the silver-haired boy, judging by the wrinkles on his face. “Stay. It should be no bother. Tell us the word?”

“Dog,” Rolly replied as quick as a whip.

The Unsullied accepted it without hesitation.

Quentyn sighed in relief, but his heartbeat only calmed when the two Unsullied were moving away.

They had to act quickly. The iron bar was thick and heavy, but well oiled. Arch and Rolly had no trouble lifting it, though.

 Shortly after, Quentyn and Aegon pulled the doors open and Gerris stepped through, waving at them with his glimmering torch.

“Come on, bring the supper.”

This supper was transported on a butcher’s wagon, waiting in the alley. The driver’s wagon rumbled loudly as he moved over the bricks, the quartered carcass of an ox and a sheep covering the wagon. It were Pretty Meris’ men, who hadn’t even bothered to disguise herself.

“Let’s move,” Aegon declared determinedly and Quentyn followed along, his head light-headed.

All of this felt so damn unreal, yet so far he had been able to keep his composure, but when he stared in the darkness a terrible fear overcame him.

He trembled and his hands were slick with sweat. He wiped them on his breeches and stuttered his answer.

“There might be more guards waiting for us.”

“That is for sure,” Gerris said confidently.

“We are ready,” Aegon agreed.

“We are,” Rolly confirmed, though the tense expression on his face told Quentyn otherwise. “Now let’s get this over with.”

They all followed Gerris. Meris and two of their sellsword friends joined them, who were both armed with crossbows.

Beyond the stables, the ground level of the Great Pyramid became a labyrinth, but Quentyn recalled the way.

Beneath tree huge bricks they passed, then down a steep ramp into the depts of darkness, through the dungeons and torture chambers and past a pair of cisterns. Their footsteps echoed in his ears, accompanied by the butcher’s cart rumbling behind them with a clotting sound.

Arch eventually grabbed a torch from the sconces and pushed Gerris aside to lead the way. It seemed his slow pace bothered him.

Finally, they arrived at the familiar iron doors, rust-eaten and closed with an iron chain as thick as a man’s arm. Even worse. The iron was cracked and splitting in three places. The upper part of the door also looked like melted glass.

Beyond the door stood Unsullied and asked for the word.

“Dog,” Rolly answered.

This time they got it wrong.

“Take them,” the Unsullied commanded in a firm tone that lacked any human emotion. “They are not one of us.”

The leader, most likely the sergeant was quick, but Arch was quicker. He flung the torch at the nearest man and jabbed his spear into the man’s temple, piercing his face. A heartbeat later, the man collapsed like a puppet without strings.

Quentyn felt the urge to empty his fast unto the ground, his own blade still sheathed.

What followed next happened all so quickly.

His eyes had still been fixed on the dying man until Aegon had pulled him aside. Quentyn had stumbled to the ground, but had turned around at the clattering sound behind him. He hadn’t even seen the spear that had flown towards him.

The man who had thrown the spear at him died not long after by Gerris’ dagger and another one died by the hands of Rolly.

The last one died by Aegon’s hands who had easily ducked out of the way.

  _He is quick_ , Quentyn thought. _Almost like a dancer._

“Dog,” Quentyn replied in a stuttering voice. “The voice was supposed to be dog.”

“Does it matter now that they are dead?” Aegon asked with a breathy voice. “Mayhaps they have different words for each door. Who knows. Important is that we made it.”

“Your King speaks true,” Pretty Meris added in an impatient voice. “Now let’s get this over with.”

“Aye,” Aegon agreed enthusiastically. Quentyn envied him for it. “Let’s go and get ourselves a dragon.”

“The chains,” Quentyn added.

“They have the key,” Arch answered and cut the key from the Unsullied’s belt. 

“Brin the cart!” Aegon commanded after they had pushed open the door.

A sudden wash of heat washed over them as they entered, the air heavy with the smell of ash, brimstone and burnt meat.

Yet, it was completely black beyond the door. Quentyn sensed the dragons’ presence, lurking in the darkness.

_Gods, be good. Warrior give me strength._

Aegon seemed unfazed as he stepped through the door.

“The pale one is called Viserion, isn’t he?” he asked.

“Aye,” Quentyn replied. “And Rhaegal is the other one. The dangerous one.”

Aegon did not speak another word until they reached the lip of the pit. His cousin edged forward, moving the torch from side to side. The light was reflected back at them from the walls and ceilings. They were scorched and burned.

The air also grew hotter with every step Quentyn took, sweat rolling down his cheeks.

Suddenly, two blinking eyes appeared before him.

 _Gold_. They were and brighter than a polished coin and burning behind a veil of smoke rising like tendrils from the dragon’s nostrils.

The light of the torch revealed the dragon’s identity.

It was Rhaegal. His scales were dark green and when he opened his mouth heat washed over them again. Quent also got a horrifying glimpse at the dragon’s black teeth and the fire burning below.

The dragon’s head was larger than horse’s and the neck seemed to stretch endlessly, uncoiling around them like a snake.

“Rhaegal,” Quentyn said. He hoped it would keep the dragon at bay.

When Aegon stepped beside him, the dragon’s eyes narrowed and he opened his jaw, hot air washing over their faces, before he shifted his attention towards the cart with the food.

The dragon unleashed a current of flame on the dead animals, before staring to tear them apart.

Arch and the others had fled in the last moment and were now hiding in the shadows while Aegon and Quentyn were staring in awe at the strength of dragon fire.

It was the first time he saw a hint of fear in Aegon’s bearing, but he .

_He may or may not be my nephew, but he is braver than me._

“Where is the other dragon…Viserion?,” Aegon asked and lowered his torch to throw some light into the gloomy pit below while Quentyn continued to watch the green dragon feeding off the steaming carcass of sheep, his long tail curling like a snake as he ate.

A thick collar was visible on his neck with three feet of chain dangling from it.  He also saw the shattered links strewn across the floor of the pit amongst blackened bones.

_They must have melted the chains._

“There!” Aegon called out to him and pointed his torch at the blackened arches of bricks above. A trickle of ash caught his eye and then he saw something pale stirring amongst the shadows.

Viserion looked like a huge white serpent uncoiling inside the wall, up where it curved into the ceiling. More heaps of ash came drifting their way and suddenly the white dragon’s long horned head appeared, his eyes glowing in the dark like burnished gold.

“More meat!” Quentyn shouted, but Aegon was drawn to the pale beast by an invisible hand.

Suddenly, Viserion launched himself from the ceiling, his pale wings unfolding and the broken chain dangling from his neck as he moved over the ground.

He was so close, Quent felt as if he was looking straight into the oven of a baker.

“Viserion!” Aegon called out and the dragon’s eyes searched for him as he came down between Quentyn’s companions and the door, a loud roar echoing over the pit like a lion’s roar.

The dragon’s head moved from side to side as he watched the intruders, but his attention was soon directed elsewhere after Aegon had made use of the whip Quentyn had given him.

 “Viserion!” Aegon repeated again and didn’t move as the dragon’s head moved towards him, sniffing at him. “Come here!”

Smoke rose from his nostrils, but the dragon didn’t attack, though the smoke tore a cough from Aegon’s mouth.

“Good,” Aegon commanded calmly, though Quentyn could see the tremor in his hand as he touched the dragon’s head. The beast closed his eyes and made a cawing sound. He sounded almost like a weeping child. “Good beast.”

Quentyn was staring in awe, but the rest of their companions were frozen in time. Rolly’s face was as pale as ash, his eyes wide in fear. Arch was hiding in the shadows beneath a crumbling ceiling with Meris and the other two sellswords while Gerris was holding unto his spear like a babe to the tits of his mother.

It could have all worked out so perfectly, but their moment triumph was interrupted by the shouts of men.

“Have you lost your minds!” the familiar voice of an enraged Jon Snow rang in Quentyn’s ears as he turned around.

“Gods be good!” the son of Lyanna Stark exclaimed and froze, his eyes growing wide as he stared at something behind Quentyn.

The heat washed over him and Viserion gave a roar at Jon Snow and his men, though he didn’t attack them.

Quentyn’s heart nearly stopped as he stared back Rhaegal, who had sneaked up at him concealed by the darkness.

 _This is it_ , he thought. _The end._

Yet, it never came to that, for Jon Snow had snapped his whip across the dragon’s face, his shouting drowning out all sound around him.

“Down! Leave him be! Rhaegal!”

The dragon roared and snapped his head forward, but left Jon Snow unharmed. He had only given a loud roar, like a child that shouted at its parent to make his displeasure known. It was the only way Quentyn could describe the sight before him.

“Rhaegal!” Jon Snow shouted again and slapped his whip against the dragon’s head once more. “Enough!”

Again the beast opened his mouth and roared at Jon Snow, though no flames left his mouth.

In that moment, Jon Snow’s face looked as if all blood had drained out of his face and he was trembling from head to toe as he lifted his whip once more.

“Enough!” Jon Snow shouted at the dragon. “Rhaegal!”

This time, Rhaegal backed away, his mouth closed.

“Rhaegal!” Jon Snow called out once more and snapped his whip .”Turn around! Backwards!”

The dragon didn’t obey immediately, but turned half around.

As is if possessed by a madman, Jon Snow bridged the distance and literally leaped atop the dragons back, clinging to the scales covering his back.

The beast roared in confusion, moving his tail back and forth.

“Rhaegal!” Jon Snow cried out again, snapping the whip with one hand and clinging to the dragon’s back with the other.

“There!” he shouted and pointed at the open door. “There!”

To Quentyn’s utter disbelief the dragon seemed to understand the meaning of his words and began to move, nearly pulling out half the door and leaving behind only dust and ash. Viserion followed after him, his roar echoing in Quentyn’s ears.

Now that Jon  Snow and the dragons were gone, Ser Barristan and his guards came forward, their eyes narrowed against the fluttering dust.

“Viserion,” Aegon called out in confusion, who had collapsed to the ground when the beast Rhaegal had rushed through the room. “Viseri…,” he trailed off when Ser Barristan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards, towards the broken door.

Not far from there, Quentyn saw Merris, Arch, Gerris and the rest of their sellsword brothers still hiding in the shadows.

“You had no right to be here!” Ser Barristan shouted at Aegon. “Come or I will drag you out of here…,”

Aegon followed, albeit unwillingly while Quentyn was pulled back to his feet by two of the Unsullied.

It was then that Quentyn felt something warm pooling between his thighs.

The sight made him laugh, so happy he was to leave the dragon’s lair alive.

_Now they will call me Quentyn Martell  the Pisswater Prince! Oh, what a song that will be!_

_..._

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know people want to see Aegon burn, but I am not wasting several hundreds thousand words building him up as a character and antagonist to simply kill him off like that.
> 
> That would be boring. Besides, almost every fic who has fAegon as a character has him die by trying to tame the dragon. I am asking why? Ben Plumm gets Viserion to like him, why shouldn't a kid with Blackfyre blood be able to do the same? Dany has probably the purest dragon blood and Jon comes second and Aegon in the third place...
> 
> Technically, even Robert, Stannis, Renly or Shireen could tame a dragon.


	43. Of Storms to Come

**The Onion Knight**

They had ridden without out rest, but then their travel had suddenly turned even more troublesome than anticipated. Along the way, they had been attacked by highway men. They had attacked their camp at night, trying to steal their belongings, but the Blackfish’s blue-and-red-striped guards’ had been quick to act.

Ten of the enemy had died in the struggle and three had been caught, among them two lads not older than his sons and an elderly woman. The two lads had been armed with cudgels and the elderly man with an axe that had easily taken the head of one of Davos’ guardsmen.

“These men are Sparrows,” the Blackfish pointed out after they had gagged and bound them.  They had also questioned them, but they had refused to speak a single word even after the Blackfish had hit them until their knuckles had turned blue and red. “Best would be to hang them to send a massage.”

“How can you tell that they belong to the Sparrows, Ser?” Ser Alester asked, clueless as ever.

“The big one with the axe carries the seven-pointed star branded into his flesh. The lads are probably young Sparrows.”

“Old sparrows…young sparrows,” Ser Alester mumbled and pulled his furred cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was a beautiful pelted cloak made from the fur of a fox. “For me they look like common rabble. I agree with Ser Brynden. Best we hang them and move on to the capital. The King must be eager to see us.”

Ser Davos nodded his head and rubbed his hands over the crackling fire. They had made camp near the slope of a small brook that was protected by a patch of wood; mostly oak trees and one or two elms.  He was also impatient to return to the capital, but Davos disagreed with the Blackfish’s suggestion. Better would be to take these Sparrows to the capital. Lady Melisandre might be able to make them speak.

“We are not going to hang them. The King might want to question them,” Ser Davos added at last. He had tried to put strength behind his voice, to sound like one of these high lords, but it made him feel like a mummer. He was called ‘Ser’ and ‘Lord Hand’, but deep down he still felt like the old Davos, the smuggler that had lost his fingers and had earned himself knighthood.

“Question them?” Ser Alester asked and wrinkled his nose as if Ser Davos had dumped a heap of shit in his lap. “Why would the King want to question this rabble?”

Davos sighed. For a high lord he was rather slow.

“They might be able to gives us more information about these Sparrows.”

“Not a bad idea,” the Blackfish added approvingly. “But I have already given these fools a hard beating and yet none of them spoke a single word.”

“They will,” Ser Davos assured the Blackfish. “Once they have seen the Black Cells.”  _And have met Lady Melisandre_ , he thought, but didn’t voice these thoughts openly.  _Poor fellows._

Thus, they had bound the men to their horses and had continued their travel, though the sudden autumn rains had delayed their travel and they had been forced to take shelter near an abandoned farm as the swelling rivers had made the streets too muddy to move forward.

When the rain had finally died down they had moved on, though the sky wasn’t any less dreary when they finally reached King’s Landing.

During a bright and sunny day the Red Keep’s walls were a clear crimson, but today they appeared mud red.

Davos rode first with Ser Alester beside him, who couldn’t stop complaining about his spoiled cloak. After them followed the Blackfish, with his blue-and-red-striped guards and the three Sparrows that had not spoken a single word since they had caught them.

Davos commanded the guards to lock them away and led the Blackfish to his King. Any other Hand would had offered time to rest and a proper meal, but Davos knew that would not please his King.

“Your men are well cared for, good Ser,” Ser Davos assured Ser Brynden, but the man seemed to grow only more tense as they entered the anteroom leading to the throne room. As they had ridden through the city, the people had eyed them with a mixture of fear and reverence. Many of them were still in a state of shock from the bloody butchery of the last sack. Ser Brynden, who feared his grand-niece among the missing dead, must have seen her among every young girl coming their way. “And my King will be pleased to see you.”

“I cannot stay long,” Ser Brynden replied curtly and stopped as they waited for the guards to open the heavy iron doors. Davos didn’t know them by name, but their armor was dyed in the colors of House Baratheon and a burning heart was painted on their gleaming amour. “The Kingslayer will try to take revenge against my people for my nephew’s betrayal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sends us the Mountain.”

Davos shuddered at that thought. He had heard grim tales about this fearsome knight.  _A monster in human form_ , Ser Massey had called him.  _A man only fit for the seven hells._

“My King will be pleased to see you eager to fight,” he replied instead and graced the elderly man with a smile. They hadn’t spoken much during their long travel from Riverrun to King’s Landing, but Brynden Tully was a man right after his heart. Practical and straight to the point.

“It won’t be hard to convince Edmure’s bannermen to fight,” he replied and returned his smile. “They want revenge for their murdered wives and children, but the smallfolk are a different matter.”

“Indeed,” Ser Davos agreed and stepped into the dimly-lit hall that was now decorated with burning hearts and a good dozen braziers. “Now let me introduce you to my King.”

As expected, he found the King standing and in attendance of Lady Melisandre and a handful of King’s Men, which were promptly dismissed when he noticed Ser Davos’ presence.

The expression on his face was as dreary as the sky outside. Only the crown atop his head added some color to his pale face.

And as always, he remained silent until Ser Davos spoken.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos greeted and lowered his head in reverence. “I bring you Ser Brynden Tully.”

“I have met him before,” his King replied curtly, his dark blue eyes seeking Ser Brynden’s gaze. “But back then I was still a young boy and no King.”

 “Indeed, your Grace,” Ser Brynden replied and lowered his head in reverence. “But I did not come here to speak of the past, but to speak of the future. I came to speak of your war against the Lannisters.”

“Lannisters and Tyrells,” his King corrected him with clenched teeth. “Traitor’s both of them.”

“The Lannister’s army was weakened by my nephew’s attack on the Westerlands,” the Blackfish added. “But the Tyrells have fifty-thousand swords and stores filled with grain and corn. There is reason to worry.”

“My Stormlords have not seen much battle and my lands were unaffected by the war,” his King replied. “Your men shall have enough grain to fill their empty bellies and to fight for my cause.”

“Not just our men need the grain, your Grace,” Ser Brynden added. “The smallfolk most of all. The Lannister burned more than half of our harvest. Everywhere in the Riverlands we have Sparrows and highwaymen wreaking havoc. Feed them and they will calm and take up arms for you.”

“Parts of the grain shall be delivered to them,” their King promised. “But the rest must be kept for our fighting men. I cannot feed the Riverlands. What does Lord Edmure Tully intend to do about this problem?”

“He is going to be wed,” Ser Brynden explained. “Lady Ysilla Royce, who will grant us an allegiance with Lord Yohn Royce. We were promised a generous dowry…gold and corn and a promise to remove Lord Petyr Baelish from his position as Lord Protector of the Vale.”

 “And you think this will be a successful endeavor?” his King asked skeptically. “I know this Petyr Baelish. He is a worm of the vilest sort, but not without wit. He should have died a long time ago, but always found a way to escape. We should not underestimate him.”

“I cannot promise that,” Ser Brynden replied honest as ever and clenched his fit. “But be rest-assured that I will take matters into my own hands should my nephew’s ploy fail.”

“Either way, it shall be my pleasure to see the worm fed to the flames,” his King replied, his voice laced with seldom pleasure, but without a smile. “My brother should have never given him a seat at his council. That was another one of Jon Arryn’s lackluster ideas, but what can you do. The old man loved Robert more than reason and now I have to do what the two of them failed to do. To rebuild the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That will be a hard task, your Grace,” the Blackfish remarked wryly. “The Kingslayer will be no easy enemy.”

“The Kingslayer was bested by your green nephew,” his King scoffed. “It is not him I fear, but his Lannister gold and his Tyrell swords,” he continued, but fell silent when Ser Alester joined their fold.

Davos sighed. The man was never a good sign.

“Your Grace,” he apologized and lowered his head. “Forgive my delay. I needed to refresh myself before stepping into your presence.”

The answer came promptly.

“Are you a whore, Ser Alester?”

Ser Davos couldn’t help but to smile, but the Queen’s Uncle had a talent to embarrassed himself. After two moons, on the road with this ever-complaining man it was nice to see him put into his place.

“Your Grace?” the man asked in confusion. “I do not…”

“Ser Davos and Ser Brynden came to me straight from the road, but you needed to bedeck yourself with perfume like a whore. I have no need of another Spider.”

Ser Alester paled, but kept his composure.

“Forgive me, I would never…,” he stuttered, but fell silent when the King waved his hand.

“Spare me your apologies,” he grumbled and jerked his head at Ser Brynden and Ser Davos. “My Onion Knight has already informed me about everything. You can leave us now.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Ser Alester replied and left.

“Now back to the topic at hand,” his King added and shifted his attention back to the Blackfish. “I am pleased to have the Riverlords at my side, but I must ask this…Why is the Lord of Winterfell not offering men to his King?”

“He has need of them to retake the North from the Ironborn, your Grace,” Ser Brynden offered in return. “You might have heard…,” he continued, but was promptly cut off.

“I heard that the boy lost the North to the Ironborn scum and I understand why he is eager to seek revenge,” his King grumbled. “But I have need of his men  _now_.”

“I accepted these conditions on your behalf your Grace,” Ser Davos said, though the King must have known about his talks with Robb Stark as Davos had sent a raven to King’s Landing before his departure from Riverrun. “I told you so much in my raven.”

“I did,” the King confirmed with obvious displeasure and eyed Ser Brynden. “And I shall not seek revenge against the Lord of Winterfell. He is after all still a boy and boys often do not know their place. Besides, the defeat of the Ironborn is also in my interest. They are a pest and I have no need of another enemy. That said…as long as your nephew recalls his loyalty and bends the knee once his war is done I shall be more than forgiving.”

“Robb will be pleased to hear that,” the Blackfish replied in a guarded tone.

“Good,” his King said and waved his hand at the guards standing at the door. “You may leave us now Ser Brynden. You must be tired and I wish to speak alone with Ser Davos.”

“Guard the door,” his King told the guardsmen after they had crossed the anteroom and had entered another room.  It was a small room with an even smaller hearth, but the chandelier hanging from the ceiling was beautiful to behold.

“I was informed me about the Sparrows you managed to catch,” his King inquired after he had taken a seat next to the cold hearth. “What do you want me to do with them?”

“I thought it would be wise to question them about their plans. One is some sort of leader,” Ser Davos explained. “I am no expert on such matters, but we shouldn’t underestimate these Sparrows. The smallfolk is stirred up by war and hunger. That is a dangerous combination, your Grace.”

“So much is true,” his King confirmed. “But war is the only way to keep the Seven Kingdoms together.”

“That is also true,” Ser Davos agreed. “Perhaps it would help to name a new High Septon? That might calm the spirits of the Sparrows who were angered by Lady Melisandre’s actions.”

The King scoffed and leaned back.

“I will soon ride to battle,” The King scoffed. “Find me an appropriate puppet while I am gone. You are after all my Hand.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Ser Davos replied obediently, though the Kings answer worried him. “You intend to ride to war without me, your Grace?”

“You are not much of a fighter, Ser Davos,” his King remarked bluntly as ever. “And someone needs to sit the Iron Throne in my absence and guard my daughter. Who is more trustworthy than you?”

“That honors me,” Ser Davos replied, though he didn’t like the idea. “What about Lady Melisandre? Will she remain with us?”

“No,” came the answer as cold and blunt as a sword blow. “She is riding with me. She thinks I will have need of her help.”

Davos’ shuddered.

“What is it, Ser Davos? Speak plainly. What displeases you so?”

“I was there when she…when your brother was murdered. I did what I had to do…,” he struggled for words as his King’s piercing gaze met his.

“I was not there,” his King replied coldly. “I was asleep. Are you accusing me of having a hand in his death?”

Davos knew that his King knew, which made the situation even more uncomfortable. He had been there when this shadow creature had crawled forth from Lady Melisandre’s womb. That had been the Lady’s work, but she wouldn’t have acted without the King’s approval.

“I am not accusing you, your Grace, but a Kingslayer is cursed, your Grace. The Sparrows anyone devoted to the Faith will not look unkindly upon you should it become common knowledge. Now that the war is done, I think it would be best to send Lady Melisandre back to…,” he continued, but his King’s gaze was unyielding and hard as stone.

“The Faith of the Seven means nothing to me,” his King grumbled. “And while I do not consider myself a follower of Lady Melisandre’s superstitions, I wouldn’t stand here without her council. That is why I owe her my trust.”

The tone in his King’s voice told him that the discussion was at an end.

“I understand, your Grace.”

…


	44. Bonding

**Jon**

A sea of green spread before him as he woke, his side hurting as he turned around.

He had taken shelter beneath a shady tree and had wrapped his tattered cloak around his shoulders to ward off the chill. Now, pre-dawn, it was still chilly, but in a few hours the heat would return and make him wish for the cold winds of the north.

“King!” a croaking voice caused him to lift his head. “Corn!”

It was a crow that sat perched on the tree, its black eyes watching him eagerly.

“King! King! King!” the crow croaked in the same manner as Lord Commander Mormont’s pesky bird. “King! King! King!”

 _Maybe it’s the same bird_ , he thought with amusement and brushed the dirt from his cloak.  The garment was dusty and slightly singed at the edge from Rhaegal’s flames. _I wouldn’t fault him for abandoning the Wall._

At first, he had desperately tried to steer Rhaegal back to Meereen, but that hadn’t worked. For hours he had flown in circles, snapping his whip and shouting at Rhaegal, until he had given up.

Then, he had decided to try a different approach and had tried to steer him into the direction that Dragon had carried off Dany.

His reasoning was simple. Wouldn’t Rhaegal and Viserion, who had been separated for so long from Drogon, wish to seek him out?

Well, so far nothing had worked out the way Jon had imagined it. Rhaegal had given in and had flown in the direction Jon had wanted him to fly and for a time Viserion had followed after them, but soon Rhaegal had grown bored and had changed his course. Along the way, Jon had lost sight of Viserion who had probably to go hunting.

On the day before, Rhaegal had also left him here to go hunting, probably to return with a sheep.

Jon would welcome that, for he hadn’t eaten anything for a whole day, though even more than that he would welcome fresh water and bandages for his wound.

The wound had he had received during the battle in the Daznak’s pit had started bleeding again and the bandages were soiled. Yet, he had noticed not fever, which had relieved him.

 _Now I only need to find Dany_ , Jon thought and cast a hopeful glance to the blue sky. _But before that I should eat something. Wherever she is, there might be danger afoot. I will need my strength._

It made him wish that Ghost was here and while his wolf might have very well followed him, but it was very unlikely that he would reach him in time.

Pulling himself back to his feet, he brushed the cloak from his shoulders and made his way down to the small stream curling through the sea of green and yellow grass.

The water was cool, but not completely clean. Yet, it was better than nothing.

He also sprinkled a handful of water on his hair and face, trying to ease his pounding head.

He had dreamed again. This time he had been in Rhaegal’s skin, soaring over the green see and watching out for his next prey.

Eventually, he had found a white lion prowling between patches of wood and watching out for his next supper.

It had taken only the blink of a moment, before the beast had been engulfed in a ball of fire, the animal’s screams ringing loud in his ears. Then, he had feasted on the lion, tearing him apart limp and bones.

The taste of blood, smoke and burned flesh had filled his mouth and had filled his belly.

Even now, after he had washed his mouth properly, the taste of blood was still lingering.

The dragon dream had felt odd. In his dreams he had often slipped into Ghost’s skin, but this had been the first time he had slipped into Rhaegal’s skin.

 _Is it because I rode him_ , he wondered not for the first time. _Maybe it is similar._

Suddenly, he felt it. It was a tingling feeling he always felt when Ghost was close, but when he saw the shadow passing over him he knew that it was Rhaegal who had returned to him.

With a loud roar, the dragon landed on the bed of green grass, flattened by his weight.

Jon left the whip fastened at his belt and moved towards the dragon, staggering through the soft ground and the swaying grass.

The bright blinded him momentarily, but then he was covered in shadows again.

“Rhaegal!” he called out to the dragon. “Rhaegal!”

Rhaegal turned his head at once, his tail slithering behind him like a snake. Said tail had hit Jon several times as he had been clinging to the dragon’s back, leaving him with several bruises.

“Glad to have you back,” Jon said and drew closer, stretching out his hand towards the dragon’s head. “Have you been hunting?”

The dragon’s nostrils steamed as he opened his mouth and dropped a burned carcass on the ground. Bits and pieces of white pelt were still visible, which shocked Jon.

The pelt was as white as the lion’s had been.

Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. Maybe he had really slipped into Rhaegal’s skin?

Rhaegal lay curled around the tree while Jon shifted his attention to the burnt carcass.

Jon scrubbed the bits and pieces of roasted meat that were left from the bones and started to eat his supper. The meat was still a bit pink and was in dire need of salt, but it filled his stomach well enough.

When Jon had broken his fast he shifted his attention to Rhaegal, who had finally woken, his bright eyes watching him.

Jon wished he knew how to slip into his skin, but it seemed he had do this by the old way.

He snapped his whip to rouse Rhaegal from his stupor. As always the dragon made his displeasure known. With a might roar.

“I know that you are angry,” Jon told Rhaegal and stepped closer. “But this can only work if you learn to obey.”

Rhaegal gave a grunting sound and ducked his head after Jon had snapped the whip again.

Jon used the moment and leapt on the dragon’s back, clinging to the scales as if his life depended on it.

Then, he snapped the whip again, to steer Rhaegal in the right direction. Luckily, Rhaegal was in the right mood to fly and spread his wings wide, before taking flight.

Jon marveled at the sight below, though the familiar feeling of dizziness overcame him.

Flying was still new to him, but the sight was worth it.

“There!” Jon shouted and snapped the whip. “We need to go in the other direction!”

As always, Rhaegal took his time, but eventually Jon had managed to bring him back on course.

Yet, his luck didn’t last long. By midday, Rhaegal had lost course again and no amount of whip snapping and shouting could steer him back on course.

Jon felt even worse, for the sun was burning down on him like the breath of hell, his clothing already drenched with sweat.

This time Rhaegal ignored his commands.

The sky was covered with crimson streaks when Rhaegal landed on a hill, jutting out of the sea of swaying grass.

It was a jagged tangle of bare rocks that built the top of the slope and further up there, amidst broken boulders, sharp ridges and needle spires, they found a cave.

It was easy to see that Rhaegal was not the first dragon that had come here, for every rock and tree in sight had been scorched and the ground and cave were littered with broken bones.

Drogon had been here. He was sure of it.

Rhaegal sniffed at the bones and gave a cawing sound.

Jon had followed after him and started to search the heaps of bones. He froze when he noticed one of the sandals Dany had worn.

A wave of fear washed over him, but then he reminded himself that Dany had brought these dragons into the world.

_They are here children. They wouldn’t harm her._

Besides, the sandal was broken. What use would she have for one broken sandal?

“Drogon was here,” he told Rhaegal, who made another cawing sound. He sounded sad and lay down beside the heap of bones.

He looked like a lost child.

Jon felt the same and sat down beside him, his hand brushing over the lower part of his head. Rhaegal closed his eyes, his breathing still hot, but growing calmer with every passing moment.

Not long after, Jon fell asleep. This time he was blessed with a dreamless sleep and could have easily slept a while longer until Rhaegal woke him in the roughest manner possible.

The dragon had nudged him so roughly that Jon had kissed the hard ground.

“Was that necessary?” he asked Rhaegal, once he had pulled himself back to his feet. “That hurt, you know.”

Rhaegal made a grunting sound and turned around, slipping out of the cave.

Jon followed after him, momentarily blinded by the bright morning light.

“King! King! King!”

It was the crow again, but this time the bothersome bird hadn’t come alone. A whole swarm of crows were circling above his head.

“King! King! King!”

Jon ignored the crow and watched as Rhaegal stretched his tail and wings.

Jon knew what that meant and didn’t want to waste this opportunity.

He quickly returned to the cave to pick up Dany’s sandal, an idea bloomed in his mind.

“Rhaegal,” he called out to the dragon, who promptly turned his head. “Here.”

Jon held the sandal to his steaming nostrils.

Rhaegal hesitated at first, but then he started to sniff at the sandal.

“Do you smell your mother? Can you find her?”

Rhaegal gave no answer and turned around, lowering his back as he stretched out his wings.

Jon brushed his lingering fears away and hopped onto Rhaegal’s back.

This time, he didn’t snap his whip and decided to trust Rhaegal.

For by now, he had realized that dragons could be as stubborn and intelligent as humans.

…


	45. Friend or Enemy

**Barristan the Bold**

Ser Barristan watched the Ironborn Fleet from afar, the golden kraken banners bright and golden like a sunbeam. Barristan knew an Ironborn ship when he saw one as he had fought them when he had still served Robert Baratheon.

When Barristan had left Westeros Balon Greyjoy had just made himself King of the Iron Islands. Could it be possible that he send these ships to forge an allegiance with Queen Daenerys?

Barristan didn’t like that prospect, but he was the Hand of the Queen and would perform his duties to his best abilities.

“These are Westerosi ships,” Greyworm remarked to Ser Barristan, his dark gaze still fixed on the ships. “Are they enemy or friend?”

“We won’t know until we have spoken to them,” Ser Barristan replied. “Send out men to greet them and bring the leaders to the Great Pyramid. I shall meet with them at once.”

Greyworm obeyed without question.

Barristan met the leaders of the Ironborn in the hall of pink marble and was seated on his Queen’s bench.

 It was a strange feeling. He was a knight not a King.

Greyworm was at this side and he had a score of Unsullied line up along the walls to show their strength. It was the only speech these Ironborn would understand.

Barristan was not surprised when the leader turned out to be Victarion Greyjoy, the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.

He was a large and powerful man, with a broad chest. His hair was black, but flecked with grey.

His armor was equally impressive. It was made of boiled leather, heavy chain mail, lobstered plate and a shining helmet in the shape of a kraken. Swept over his shoulders he wore a cloak made of nine layers of gold cloth sewn like the kraken of his house.

His longsword and dirk were also visible. Barristan had told Greyworm that it would only lead to unnecessary struggles if he tried to force the Ironborn to give up their weapons.

Barristan only hoped that he would not regret his decision when he laid eyes on Victarion Greyjoy’s companions. They all wore fearsome armor and sported axes, swords and scythes.

“Victarion Greyjoy,” Barristan stated as he rose to his feet and descended down the steps to get a better look at the man that had come to stand before him. “The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. What brings you all the way to Slaver’s Bay?”

“Ser Barristan Selmy,” the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet said. “Didn’t you turn your cloak during Robert’s Rebellion? What made you decide to return to the dragons?”

“More than a year ago,” Ser Barristan replied, but kept the truth to himself. After I was dismissed from my post. Not out of my own strength. “Yet, you haven’t answer my question, Lord Captain. Why come here?”

“To speak to your Queen,” Victarion Greyjoy replied without hesitation. He was a blunt man, so much was clear. “I came to offer my services to her…the Iron Fleet could be hers.”

It was an offer to good to be true. If they added a few more ships they could easily sail to Westeros, but Barristan knew better than to expect such selflessness from the Ironborn. They couldn’t be trusted.

“Does that mean Balon Greyjoy wishes for an allegiance with my Queen?”

“My brother is dead,” Victarion informed him without a hint of emotion.

Barristan tried to hide his surprise.

“And who rules the Iron Islands now? You?”

“My brother Euron,” Victarion replied, a hint of anger visible behind his blank expression. “He has returned from his sea travels and was named as my brother’s successor. He tasked me to take the Iron Fleet here and convince Queen Daenerys to become his Queen.  Yet, I have no intentions to follow his wishes.”

Barristan hadn’t expected anything less from a Greyjoy. Him and Euron may be brothers, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t betray each other if the possibility arose. Yet, it surprised him that Euron Greyjoy would allow his brother to take with him so many ships. Either the new King of the Iron Islands had foolishly trusted his brother or he had hoped that misfortune would befall him during this long sea travel.

Whatever his reasons, Barristan was sure that his Queen would refuse such a match nor would he want her to agree to it. The Ironborn were hated in all of Westeros.

Yet, Barristan remained hesitant to send him away. He couldn’t make such a decision without his Queen.

“And what are your intentions?”

“To wed Queen Daenerys myself. I hoped to speak to her instead of you, old man.”

Barristan ignored the mocking remark and pondered his reply. He couldn’t tell him the full truth.

“The Queen is absent,” Ser Barristan explained vaguely. “But I am sure she will return in good time.”

“And when will that be? A week turn? A moon? A year?”

“I cannot say,” Barristan answered. “But you and your companions are welcome to stay as long as you are prepared to keep the peace. There will be no pillaging and rape. Is that clear?”

Victarion Greyjoy’s face was unreadable and his voice was laced with obvious displeasure.

“Very well, I shall wait for your Queen, but there is more I need to tell you, old man.”

Barristan gave an approving nod.

“Speak.”

“The Volanteen Fleet has been dispatched for Meereen. Good five-hundred ships. They mean to re-take the city.”

“Five-hundred?” Ser Barristan asked skeptically. “Volantis is powerful and rich. They should have more ships at their disposal.”

“When we sailed here we were plagued by many storms. I lost half my ships and I doubt these Volanteen ships are more robust than a ship of the Ironborn. Five-hundred are coming your way, old man. I am sure of it.”

These were grave news indeed.

“How long until they arrive here?”

“Could be weeks or a moon,” Victarion Greyjoy said. “Your Queen and her dragons will soon be needed. Not even the Iron Fleet would be able to take on five-hundred ships and I have yet to see a sign of the Meereenese fleet. Is there one?”

“No,” Barristan answered. It would be silly to pretend otherwise. “There is none to speak of.”

A satisfied smile curled on Victarion Greyjoy’s lips.

“Well, then I came in time. It seems you will have need of my help.”

Barristan disliked the notion, but it was the truth.

“It seems so,” Barristan replied. “As I said before, you are welcome to stay. I am sure the Queen will return in good time.”

“I have brought your Queen another gift,” Victarion Greyjoy added and waved his hand at his group of companions. “Come here, priest.”

The man that stepped forward had skin as black as ink. He was also incredibly tall and had the belly of a boulder. A tangle of pure white hair grew from his face like the mane of a lion and tattoos of yellow and orange were inked across his cheeks and forehead.

The man bowed deeply and leaned on his black staff, its head formed into the head of a dragon.

“I am Moqorro and I serve the one true god, R’hllor. I came to see your Queen, to guide her through the darkness awaits us all.”

Barristan tried to hide his confusion.

“What need would Queen Daenerys have for a priest of R’hllor?”

“High Priest has seen your Queen in the flames and tasked me to come here to reveal the truth to her.”

“What truth would that be?” Barristan asked curiously.

“That your Queen is Azor Ahai reborn. The High Priest saw the rebirth of her dragons. Dragons from stone, an ancient prophecy come true after so many years of waiting. The Red Comet was the sign my brothers and sisters have been waiting for all these years.”

Barristan was alarmed by this more than he could admit.

“I do not know anything about this Azor Ahai, but what you say is true. The Queen birthed dragons from stone.”

“Exactly, and that is why I came here,” the Red Priest explained. “I am to bring her to Volantis. The Queen has already stirred the flames of righteousness when she conquered this city and smashed the slaver’s armies at Yunkai.  I saw it in the flames…Volantis cleansed by the holy fires of R’hllor. It will mark the beginning of the final struggle.”

“Final struggle?” Barristan asked in return.

“The final struggle between good and evil. Fire and ice. Light and Darkness. Life and Death. The Long Night and the return of the Great Other, the eternal enemy of R’hllor. Azor Azhai is his champion and meant to deliver us from the Great Other with Fire and Blood.”

Barristan had a hard time keeping his composure. He held no love for prophecies and even less for such priests as him, but the Queen would not thank him for insulting a potential ally.

“As I told Lord Captain Victarion. My Queen is absent. You must await her return.”

“I shall,” the Red Priest replied without hesitation. “I saw her return in the flames. Dragons of green and black shall devour the enemy fleet. This will mark the beginning of R’hllor conquest.”

Barristan shuddered, but said nothing. There was more work to do and he had read enough of the man’s ramblings.

Thus, he dismissed him politely and returned to his duties.

When he was about to get his supper Lord Jon Connington came to seek him out and asked him to attend this his Prince.

Barristan hadn’t refused him this time, because he had long decided to visit Prince Aegon, though so far he had always found an excuse to stay away. First, because he had been fearful and now because he had been angered with the Prince’s misconduct. The Prince had acted against the Queen’s interest and had even murdered four of her Unsullied. He doubted she would murder her potential nephew, but it would make the current situation only more difficult.

Not that Barristan particularly liked the idea of making common cause with the Golden Company, the sons of sellsword and exiles that had wanted to place a Blackfyre on the throne. Sure, they were the best sellsword company there was, but it would leave the wrong impression. The heir of Rhaegar as the spearhead of the Golden Company? It was unthinkable to Barristan, who had slewn Maelys the Monstrous, but then what choice did they have? Beggars can’t be choosers.

That both his Queen and Jon were missing only added to the pressure resting on his shoulders. Lady Lyanna, the bloodriders and Ser Jorah had left a week turn ago and the more time passed the harder it would get to keep the peace. That Victarion Greyjoy had arrived here in the city and the dispatch of the Volanteen fleet made Barristan fearful for the future of Slaver’s Bay.

His blood also ran cold whenever he thought of the Red Priest that had come to see his Queen and the things he had said. Prophecies and visions had been the downfall of King Aegon and now this man came to poison his Queen’s mind.

Prince Aegon looked comfortable as he rested upon the cushioned canopy, only dressed in a simple tunic, dark breeches and riding boots.

That Barristan had placed guards before his door didn’t seem to dim his pleasure of seeing him.

Barristan tried to find a hint of Prince Rhaegar in this young man or any other Targaryen he had known during his long service, but he saw nothing.

 _If only I had a better memory of the Princess Elia_ , he thought as he lowered his head in greeting.

“How may I be of service to you?” he asked the Prince and noticed Lord Connington’s and Quentyn Martell’s presence.

“First you should sit down,” they young man offered and waved his hand at the cushioned seat placed not far from him.  He looked confident and there was always a smile on his lips. Prince Rhaegar had rarely smiled nor had the Princess Elia.

“I have been sitting all day. I would prefer to stand.”

If Prince Aegon was disappointed by his answer it didn’t show on his face. He looked open as ever, one leg swung over the other and a warm smile curling on his lips.

“You are known to be an honorable man, Ser Barristan. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms respect you, yet you bent the knee to the Usurper, the man who build his kingdom upon my mother’s and sister’s lifeblood. How have you been able to serve such a man with a clear consciousness?”

Barristan was taken back by the question, but he should have expected it.

“Robert Baratheon was a charismatic man and I deluded myself into thinking he would make a good King. It was easy to ignore the truth when one wants to save one’s life. I always said to myself ‘Tywin Lannister gave the order’ or ‘King Robert was an unwilling participant.”

Then, he exhaled deeply and searched Prince Aegon’s face. Ser Barristan had admitted to his fault, but also decided to address the Prince’s misconduct towards his Aunt. “I was wrong, just as you were wrong in trying to take the Queen’s dragons.”

A hint of displeasure was visible in his eyes and his smile had long vanished, but the Prince remained polite.

“I see that now,” Prince Aegon acknowledged and averted his gaze, perhaps in shame or embarrassment, Barristan couldn’t say, but it relieved him greatly. Queen Daenerys had  gentle heart. She might prove forgiving if the Prince showed remorse. “But I was blinded by my anger towards this Jon Snow and what he said to me. It were the actions of a foolish boy not a King.”

“It is wise of you to see your faults,” Barristan replied. “Your father Prince Rhaegar would be pleased to hear that you are intending to leave your past grudges behind you.”

“I am going to try my best,” Aegon promised and smiled at Barristan. “I shall forgive my brother’s rude words if he is prepared to forgive me. I doubt I will ever be able to see him as more than Lady Lyanna Stark’s son, but that doesn’t mean we cannot work together. We have the same goal…to re-take what was lost.”

“That is so,” Barristan agreed wholeheartedly. “Does that mean you are accepting the Queen’s offer?”

“Aye, but there is one condition I cannot fulfil. I cannot give Jon Snow the name Targaryen. I wouldn’t mind giving him the name Stark or allow him to choose a new name, but giving him the name Targaryen would anger my kin. I cannot make him my heir either, but I might consider marrying my future children to his or make them my heirs should I fail to have heirs of my own. Does that sound reasonable to you, Ser Barristan?”

“I does to me,” Ser Barristan replied with a hesitant smile, though was not completely pleased with the offer. Yet, he was the Hand of the Queen and that meant he had to keep the peace. “I think the Queen will also be pleased to hear that you are willing to see reason.”

“I doubt she will be pleased when she hears about my actions,” Prince Aegon replied regretfully and brushed a handful of silver locks from his face. “Which is why I hoped you could help me to persuade her.”

He sounded honest, but Barristan doubted lies would serve Prince Aegon now.

“The first thing you must do is apologize,” Barristan explained. “And then you must ignore your pride and give Jon Snow the name Targaryen. The Queen will not accept anything else, for Jon Snow is dear to her heart.”

“That is quite obvious,” Quentyn Martell said, who had so far observed their exchange in silence. “And probably the reason she refused me. Was the tale about her bareness a lie?”

“I do not know much about the woes of womanhood,” Ser Barristan replied and shrugged his shoulders. “But the Queen certainly believes that she is barren, which was the reason she refused your offer of marriage.”

“And yet she is willing to allow Jon Snow to wed another woman?” Jon Connington asked and raised his eyebrows. Barristan was surprised to hear such words from him. Never in his life had he seen Lord Connington concern himself with ‘such matters’.

“The Queen’s foremost wish is to see House Targaryen restored to former glory and she is prepared to make sacrifices for this goal. That is at least what she told me.”

Prince Aegon didn’t seem pleased with Ser Barristan’s answer.

He bit his lips and tapped his fingers on the table in front of him, before he spoke again.

“She doesn’t believe that I am Prince Rhaegar’s son, does she?” he asked Ser Barristan in a sad tone.

Again Ser Barristan gave him the truth.

“She does not.”

“That is what I suspected,” Aegon replied and exhaled deeply. “And which was the reason I tried to tame the dragon. I nearly did it and am sure I could mount Viserion if I was given another chance…a chance you could grant me. The dragon has built his lair in one of the deserted Pyramids, has he not?”

“He has,” Ser Barristan confirmed, a feeling of discomfort washing over him. “But my Queen would not permit it…,” he tried to explain, but the Prince suddenly interrupted him, albeit in a polite tone.

“You have doubts my parentage as well, don’t you, Ser Barristan?”

Ser Barristan lowered his head in apology. He wanted to believe him with all his heart, but the doubts were always there lingering in his heart.

“I do.”

“I see,” Prince Aegon said thoughtfully, a sad smile curling on his lips. “And I shall not judge you for it. Nor do I judge you for trying to save your life. You have my full forgiveness.”

Barristan felt like slapped. That was not the answer he had expected.

“I…,” he began, but seeing Prince Aegon’s sad silenced him once more.

“I shall be patient and wait for your Queen’s return.”

Barristan could only nod his head, his mind a storm of confusion.

“Of course,” he answered before he left Prince Aegon. “Of course.”

It was early morning when Greyworm roused him from his sleep and brought him the news of Prince Aegon’s sudden departure from the city and the death of six more Unsullied, namely the men Barristan had placed at his door.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me if I was the Emmy jury that has the honor to judge D and D's Episode 6 script: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKjxFJfcrcA


	46. The Dosh Khaleen

**Daenerys**

Again Dany had emptied her fast in the bowl she had placed beside her sleeping place. Yesterday had been the first time in days that she had been able to fill her stomach and now half of it had come spilling out of her mouth. It was a waste and gave her concerns about her health. At first, she had believed that the cause was the unclean water she had consumed, but now she was beginning to think that there was another reason.

 _I am sick_ , she knew, though throughout her life she had hardly ever been sick nor her brother Viserys. _There is no other possible explanation._

Viserys had always believed that the blood of the dragon protected them against illnesses, but that had probably been another one of his many delusions.

How many lies did you tell me, dear brother, she wondered and fastened the bindings of her cloak around her shoulders to ward off the chilly breeze entering her dwelling place through the thin slits that were carved into the ceiling.

The dwelling place of the Dosh Khaleen stretched over several buildings located in the eastern part of Vaes Dothrak. There was a spacious stone pavilion, two manses and even a stepped pyramid. She liked going there the most for whenever she climbed all to the top she got a good view over Vaes Dothrak and the world beyond. A week turn had passed since she had been brought here, had been stripped naked and had been painted from head to toe with blood and other pastes that resembled the war paint of Drogo’s Khalasar. Three full days she had been forced to run around like that, before the eldest among the Dosh Khaleen, an old hag named Kamala, had given her the approval to wash off the paint at the holy water place of the Dosh Khaleen. Of course, she had only been allowed to go in company of the warriors that were chosen to guard and protect the Dosh Khaleen or as Dany saw it: to make sure that they do not leave their prison.

Not that many of the Dosh Khaleen seemed interested in leaving. Half of them were old woman who had grown comfortable with their life.

And it certainly wasn’t the worst kind of life. Every Dosh Khaleen had their own sleeping place and had nothing to want for as it was a matter of honor to care for a Khal’s wife, especially if she had born a child. Naturally, Dany had received not as much luxury as the other women, but she had received clean dresses made of a fine cloth, gemstones, fresh fruits, furs, hairpins and a pair of well-made sandals, all of it gifts by Khal Jhaqo who had wanted to honor Drogo.

Dany had been pleased with the gifts as some of them could be useful for a future escape. The furs would keep her warm, the sandals were made of thick leather, the food could feel her belly for a few days and the hairpins could serve as a weapon, though she doubted they would be much use against a Dothraki warrior. No, Drogon was her best hope, but to find him she needed to get out of here as soon as possible.

 _I should have never come here_ , she mused as she braided what was left of her silver hair. Half of it had burned off during her flight from Daznak’s Pit. _I should have just climbed back unto Drogon’s back and burn them all._ _At least, I am far away from Mago. Not even a creature as vile as him would dare to touch a Dosh Khaleen._

“Khaleesi,” a whispering voice caused her to turn around. It was Lallah, a slave girl and another gift by Khal Jhaqo. She was ten and four, dark-haired and pale-skinned. Her accent told Dany that she hailed from the Free Cities and her bad Dothraki told her that she hadn’t resided her for a long time. “Your supper.”

Dany smiled at her handmaid after she had brushed the curtain aside that separated her dwelling place from the corridor outside. Most of the Dosh Khaleen had several girls attending to them, but Dany only had only Lallah, who was kind enough to tell her what was happening in the outside world.

“Please come in,” Dany told the girl and waved her hand at the carpet spread beside her sleeping place.

“What do you bring?” Dany inquired in a friendly tone. She hardly knew the girl, but the girl could be of help. Maybe Dany could convince her to help her escape if she promised her gold, but so far Dany had not felt sure enough to ask.

“Roasted meat, sweet grass and wild peppers,” the girl explained and showed her the bowl. It smelled delicious, but Dany saw not much use in eating other than to fill her stomach. Half of the food will most likely end up in the bowl beside her bed.

Sure, she could have gone to one of the Dosh Khaleen to examine her, but Dany couldn’t help but to be wary of so called ‘healers’ after her bad experiences with Miri.

 _I will have need of my strength_ , she reminded herself and smiled at the girl.

“I thank you,” she told the girl and knelt down beside Lallah. “But it is too much for me. Please have your fill.”

The first time, Dany had offered food to her she had been mistrustful, but by now Lallah didn’t seem to care and shoveled a handful of sweet grass into her mouth.

“Please have the peppers as well,” Dany offered and took a handful of bites from the meat roasted in honey. “They make my insides go wild.”

“You can’t keep it inside?” Lallah asked confusion and pointed at her flat belly. “Again?”

“I did,” Dany confirmed after she had taken a gulp from the fermented milk. “It seems I am no longer used to the Dothraki food. To think I was once able to eat an entire horse heart…,” she trailed off and smiled sadly when she thought of Rhaego.

Her babe must have given her the strength to do so.

“A horse heart?” the girl asked and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Then you had a khalakka? Why not have more slaves?”

The girl’s question hurt Dany, though she knew that Lallah didn’t mean to insult her. Her understanding of the Dothraki tongue was clumsy, but Dany didn’t dare to speak with her in Bastard Valyrian after Kamala had one of the other slave girls whipped for soiling the holy dwelling place of the Dosh Khaleen with a foreign tongue.

“I lost the khalakka,” Dany explained and washed away her sadness with the rest of the fermented milk. “To an evil witch.”

The girl’s eyes widened in fear.

“A witch? Who would trust a witch?”

“I was a silly girl,” Dany agreed and played with the hair pins she had used to fasten her braid atop her head.  “But you are right. I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“And you did not have another khalakka?”

If Lallah hadn’t asked in such a heartfelt manner, Dany would have dismissed her immediately.

“No,” Dany replied and brushed her hand over her barren womb. “I didn’t have another khalakka”

Lallah frowned.

“But you have to empty your stomach every day?”

By now, Dany was getting slightly annoyed by the girl’s questioning, but she tried to keep her thoughts to herself. She might need the girl’s help in the future.

“I do, but I do not understand what that has to do with my lost babe?”

“Whenever my mother carried babes she could not keep food inside there,” Lallah explained and pointed at her belly. “Mayhaps your Khal gave you a babe before he left for the Shadow Lands?”

Dany was not surprised about the girl’s lack of knowledge, but couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“That is impossible.”

“Why?” Lallah asked, leaned forward and cupped one of Dany’s breasts. Dany backed away, a painful gasp escaping her mouth.

“See! It hurt, didn’t it? It means milk is coming!” Lallah exclaimed proudly and was about to cup another breast, before Dany had slapped the girl’s hand away.

“I am not a bloody cow!” Dany snapped at the girl and averted her gaze. “Leave me now.”

She heard no word of protest, only the sound of footsteps.

What Lallah had said was utter nonsense, but it wouldn’t leave her mind for a long time, even after she had climbed up and down the stepped Pyramid.

Today was another day she hadn’t seen a single glimpse of Drogon, but that was no surprise to her. Dragons were smarter than common animals. They might sometimes be overcome by their need for food and kill a little girl roaming a pasture, but they usually stayed away from cities.

Dany had no illusions about Drogon’s actions at Daznak’s Pit. The blood had drawn him there and not solely Dany’s presence.

 _I need to get out of here_ , she reminded herself and curled up atop her sleeping place. _But how can it be done? Without a horse I won’t get far…_

She wrecked her brain over the problem for a long time until her head started to pound and she fell asleep.

The golden rays of morning light streaming through the narrow slits woke her.

Lallah barely looked at her when she brought Dany her breakfast, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to think about the false hopes the girl’s had filled her heart with…

“Leave it here,” Dany told Lallah and took in her breakfast: flat bread with olives and a bowl of fermented milk. She was relieved when she felt no feeling of sickness overcoming her this morning, which made it easier for he to eat.  “I shall call for you later to take it away.”

Once, Dany had broken her fast, she climbed up the stepped Pyramid as part of her morning ritual. The sky was still covered with streaks of red and yellow, a handful of stars flickering at the distant horizon. Especially, the constellation of the Stallion appeared unusually bright.

It was a constellation that could only be seen for a few weeks each year, which told her the dry period had arrived. It also made her think back on her lost babe Rhaego and the last time she had come here to see the Dosh Khaleen.

She had been freshly wed to Khal Drogo and they had named her babe the Stallion that Mounts the World.

That night she had devoured the horse heart.

 _It was another lie_ , she knew now. _Jhaqo was right to mock me. I was stupid enough to believe these old hags and Miri._

 _He even called Drogon the Stallion_ , she thought with amusement and continued to watch the fading stars.

 _Well, I suppose Jhaqo and the Dosh Khaleen were not completely wrong…I birthed Drogon and Rhaego had supposedly looked like a winged beast. Jhaqo will never know how right he was…the Stallion…of course_ , Dany thought, a sudden realization washing over her. _The Stallion Mounts the World. That is how I will get out of here!_

She wanted to smack herself for her blindness, but didn’t waste any time to set her plans into motion.

She washed and dressed herself properly. She also asked Lallah apply the ceremonial war paint on her face and arms, before she was led before Kamala, the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen.

Kamala was well beyond seventy, a small shrunken woman with a long grey braid of twisted and dirty hair that curled all down to her waist. She wore green war paint and her son had supposedly been a distant ancestor of Khal Drogo, but Dany saw not much resemblance between Drogo and the woman in front of her.

“What request do you bring before the Dosh Khaleen, sister?” she asked Dany and appraised her with her inky gaze.

“I wish to speak to Khal Jhaqo,” Dany raised her voice, trying to appear stunned and in awe as if she had just gone through an otherworldly experience. “I know he still resides in Vaes Dothrak…I must tell him about my vision!”

When the hag’s dark eyes widened with curiosity Dany knew she had roused her interest. The other three hags whispered to each other, the bells on their braids tingling as they moved their heads left and right.

“A vision you say?”

“The Stallion Mounts the World…I saw him,” Dany told the old hag. “You all know that the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen that came before you foretold that my son would be the Stallion that Mounts the World, but that was a misunderstanding. I birthed no living child…only three dragons. One of them I named after the Khal..Drogon. He was the black shadow that attacked Khal Jhaqo’s khalasar. I know now why my son brought me here…he chose Jhaqo. He is meant to be the Khals of Khals. He is meant to mount the Stallion and unite all khalasars beneath his banner.”

“She has resided here not more than a week turn,” remarked a thin-faced Dosh Khaleen whose name Dany escaped. “Visions are for the wise not for young girls who are still subject to their monthly courses.”

´”My courses have come unregularly ever since I birthed my dragons and in the last moons they have stayed away,” Dany countered and touched her silver hair. “Even the color of my hair makes me look more like a crone than you, dear sister. Besides, my ancestors are known to have sight. And when I wed Khal Drogo I became one of you.”

Kamala chuckled and Dany noticed by their smiles that she had won over two more of the eldest Dosh Khaleen.

“You are a witty girl, sister,” Kamala said. “And you are right to point out the faults of my predecessor. She was known to misread the signs, but what you told me confirms that we were not completely mistaken. You brought the Stallion into the world, just not the way you expected it would happen. Yet, I didn’t expect that Khal Jhaqo could be the chosen one. He was of Drogo’s blood, but was born from the womb of a Lhazareen woman.”

Kamala’s words confused her, for Dany had never heard that the Dothraki held a special favoritism when it came to blood. Their views on women were simple. If women were healthy and flowered they were be ripe for taking and birthing children.

“I do not understand why it matters that Khal Jhaqo has been born from the womb of a Lhazareen woman?” Dany asked respectfully and lowered her head.

“And that only shows your youth!” the thin-faced Dosh Khaleen mocked. “Why do you think Drogo chose you, girl? I suppose you are pretty enough to look upon, but what he wanted was a child of dragon blood. ‘There is no more fearsome creature!’ he had told us when he had announced his intentions to wed you.”

Dany should have expected such an answer, but it still hurt to be confronted with the truth.

 _So it is true_ , she thought. _Even Drogo wed me for my womb. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Viserys was not much different._

 _Curse them both_ , she thought and tried to appear unaffected by this revelation. She put on her queenly face and met the woman’s gaze.

“And I fulfilled my duty, did I not, sisters?” Dany asked and raised her voice as she swept her gaze over the old hags. “I birthed the Stallion that Mounts the World! There is no more fearsome creature than him! And Khal Jhaqo will mount him! Who can lead him to his destiny other than the woman that birthed the Stallion?”

Silence reigned among the women until Kamala started to nod her head, filling the room with the soft sound of bells.

“You spoke like a Khaleesi, dear child,” she said with a warm smile. “And I agree to your request. I shall call for Khal Jhaqo, but let me warn you. Do not play with us. The Dosh Khaleen do not look kindly upon liars.”

Dany lowered her head.

“I would never dare to dishonor my people.”

It was another lie. She loved her Dothraki warriors and the few that had followed her after Drogo’s death, but these people here were not _her_ people.

Vaes Dothrak was not the place she belonged.

The place she belonged was waiting for her across the Narrow Sea. A black castle with twisted towers overlooking the stormy sea.

Dragonstone was her home and that is where she intended to go.

…


	47. The bloody Hound!

**Arya**

“That would be unwise, my Lady,” the Elder Brother told her Lady Mother, who was seated between Arya and Ser Ryger. “Your guardsmen are still in need of rest. A strenuous march to Runestone might worsen their state nor would they be able to offer much protection for you and your daughter.”

“But we have to move on,” her Lady Mother insisted, her voice laced with guilt. “My son expected me to go to Runestone.”

“I understand that, my Lady,” the Elder Brother replied and rose to his feet, his hand crossed behind his back as he looked out of the window.

Arya wondered who he was looking at. She hadn’t dared to go out alone without the company of their guardsmen. The memory of last night was still too fresh. First, she had met this strange man who was speaking to crows and then she had met the Hound.

Just thinking about this experience made her heart race. She had threatened the Hound with Needle, but he had slapped her weapon out of her hand as if it was a mere toy. If the strange man with the crows hadn’t been there to help her the Hound might have done worse to her.

Yet, she had been too proud to tell her Lady Mother about the incident.

“I think I might have a solution for your problem, but it might not please you all too much, my Lady,” the Elder Brother added.

Her Lady Mother took a glance at her plate, still covered with bread and cheese, before giving a hesitant nod.

“Please speak.”

The Elder Brother graced them with an amiable smile and waved his hand at someone visible through the window.

“I know men capable of replacing your wounded guardsmen. I asked them personally whether they would be prepared to accompany a Lady in need of protection. They agreed, but I am not sure if they would be to your liking, my Lady.”

Her Lady Mother narrowed her eyes in confusion and exchanged a telling look with Ser Ryger, before shifting his attention back to the Elder Brother.

“I am thankful for any man, but I am surprised that the men from this peaceful Isle know how to wield weapons. Aren’t you and your brothers sworn to peaceful conduct?”

“We are,” the Elder Brother confirmed. “But most of us here lived a worldly life before we came here. Some of the men here are criminals of the worst kind, but as the Seven-Pointed-Star rightly says ‘A mother loves all her children, the good and the evil ones’. And sadly there are times when we, who are sworn to peaceful conduct, are forced to defend our way of life against outside enemies. It is not something we relish.”

“I understand,” Ser Ryger replied. “But I must be able to trust these men. Are they criminals?”

“One of them,” the Elder Brother explained and waved his hand at the man blocking the entrance.

Arya recognized him at once. The Hound. “Come here, brother and introduce yourself.”

Arya shuddered and held tightly unto Needle as she watched how the Hound drew closer and pulled down his cowl to reveal his nasty scar.

Ser Ryger gasped in horror and recognition.

“The bloody Hound!”

“That is me,” the Hound grumbled and pulled the hood of his cloak backwards. His face was pale and his scar even uglier in the bright sunlight streaming through the window. “Do I know you?”

“This is Ser Robin Ryger, the captain of the guards of Riverrun,” her Lady Mother explained in a wavering voice, but looked straight at the Hound and then at the Elder Brother. “Forgive me, but are you trying to insult us? This man’s brother not only served our enemy, but butchered countless of my father’s people.”

“And why is that, my Lady?” the Hound asked bluntly. “Because you captured the bloody Imp. Lord Tywin didn’t like that, did he? Well, not that I care about the Imp or the King. I told the King to fuck himself when the Imp started burning Stannis’ fleet with wildfire. As for my brother, we were never particularly close, especially after he gave me this nasty scar as a nameday gift.”

“You see, my Lady,” the Elder Brother added gently. “My brother hopes to find redemption and I have always believed the best way to accomplish such a feat is to do noble deeds to lighten one’s guilty heart. Protecting a noble Lady in need is such a noble cause.”

**“** No,” her Lady Mother protested. “Out of the question!”

“My Lady…,” the Elder Brother began, but the Hound interrupted him.

“I am a rotten man. I know that, but I could be of use to you…I could help you get rid of the man that wed your sister.”

“Petyr,” her Lady Mother stuttered. “You know Petyr?”

“Of course I do. I served as the King’s personal watch dog. Besides, Littlefinger owns every brothel in King’s Landing. It is hard not to know him. I also know that it was him who betrayed your husband.”

Her mother paled even more, her lips trembling.

“How did it happen, Clegane?” Ser Ryger demanded to know.

“I do not know every detail, but Stark tried to depose King Joffrey. For this purpose he asked for Littlefinger’s help, who promised to bring the Gold Cloaks to his side. Naturally, Littlefinger broke that promise. Why your husband would trust a man like Littlefinger is a mystery to me, but that the ‘little bird’ went to tell the Queen about your husbands’ plans, was the final nail in the coffin.”

“The little bird?” her Lady Mother asked, her hands fisted in the seam of her dress. “Speak plainly, Ser Clegane!”

“Ah, forgive me,” the Hound apologized and dipped his head in a mocking manner. “It’s an old habit of mine. I was speaking about your daughter, Lady Sansa. She was the one who told the Queen about your husband’s plans of smuggling the girls out of the city.”

Her Lady Mother trembled and Arya had a hard time keeping her feelings at bay. She should have expected that Sansa would do something stupid like that, but now she was gone and Arya couldn’t even tell her how stupid she was. It made her want to weep.

That her Lady Mother looked so sad made it only worse.

“My foolish girl,” her Lady Mother muttered to herself, her blue eyes wet with tears as she lifted her head to look at the Hound. “My foolish girl.”

“If it helps my Lady, the ‘little bird’ showed not much love to the King after he revealed his true face. I think she regretted helping the little shit..,” the Hound continued, but her Lady Mother cut him off.

“Do you know where she is?” her Lady Mother asked. “You must have seen her!”

“I did…before the battle,” the Hound replied, his voice laced with sudden sadness. “But I do not know what happened to her afterwards.”

Her Lady Mother dropped her head in disappointment and shifted her attention back to the Elder Brother.

“You said ‘men’? Who else do you have in mind?”

“There is this man we call ‘the Stranger’. He speaks not much and his sword arm is ruined, but he is very capable with the lance and rides better me.”

“The Stranger?” Ser Ryger asked. “What kind of name is that?”

“He isn’t in his right mind,” the Hound laughed. “The ‘Crowfucker’ can’t even tell you when he was born, let alone his name.”

“He is a bit like me, my Lady,” the Elder Brother replied. “We barely survived the Rebellion, but sadly the Stranger did not only lose his sword arm, but also his mind. At least, that is what my predecessor used to say.”

“The Rebellion?” her Lady Mother asked, her eyes widening in surprise. “Did you partake in the battle of the Trident?”

“Aye, I did, my Lady,” the Elder Brother confirmed without hesitation. “I fought at King Aerys’ side and lost one of my brothers in this bloody struggle, Ser Jonothor Darry.”

“Then you are Ser Robin Darry? Truly?” Ser Ryger asked in shock and rose to his feet to take a closer look at the man’s face.

“Gods!” Ser Ryger exclaimed. “It is true... You have the ‘Darry nose’. How could I have been so blind?”

“Seventeen long years have passed,” Ser Robin explained friendly as ever. “And I hope my past allegiance won’t lead to further quarrels between us. I am a brother of the Quiet Isle and I only wish to serve wherever I can, which is why I am prepared to offer you my sword arm and my two most capable men. That is if you are willing to have me, my Lady.”

Her Lady Mother’s face was unreadable as she pondered over the Elder Brother’s offer.

At last, she sighed deeply and sought the Elder Brother’s face once more.

“What about the Quiet Isle? Are you not the overseer?”

“I shall appoint a capable steward until,” the Elder Brother assured her. ”It is not the first time I left the Quiet Isle to seek out those befallen by sickness. Nobody will take offence if I leave for a few moons and that way I can also keep an eye on my two brothers.”

The Hound scoffed. “I need no mother hen to look over me!”

“No, but your wound needs attention,” the Elder Brother countered.

“Whatever,” the Hound muttered and was about to open his mouth, when her Lady Mother interrupted them.

“I shall take your offer,” she said hesitatingly. “But only because I trust your word, Ser Robin.”

“Brother Robin,” the Elder Brother corrected her gently. “Please call me Brother Robin.”

Arya couldn’t believe her ears and finally found her voice. She had been trying to act like a Lady.

“The Hound can’t go with us! He killed my friend!” she shouted at her Lady Mother and pulled on her shoulder. “He is evil!”

The Hound chuckled at that. “Aye, I killed the butcher boy, because the Queen demanded it of me. You think the Queen would have allowed me to keep my head if I refused her order?”

“He was just a boy!” Arya couldn’t help but to snarl, tears burning in her eyes. “And you murdered him!”

“I have murdered a good many of people and so have your father and brother…,” the Hound continued to defend himself, but the Elder Brother silenced him.

“I think that is quiet enough,” he chided the Hound and smiled at Arya, offering her a handkerchief. “Hush, child. Wherever that friend of yours is now, it is a better place than here. As for my brother’s actions…it is a difficult thing to refuse a Queen.”

“The Elder Brother speaks true,” her Lady Mother added. “Brush your tears away and leave this matter to me and Ser Ryger.”

Arya couldn’t believe her ears and clenched her fist.

“The Mother can kiss my ass!” Arya spat back at the Hound and the Elder Brother, before storming out of the room. “I will never forgive him! Never!”

She hid with the horses, her favorite place on this stupid Isle. The brother who was responsible for the stables even gave her a carrot to feed her horse.

It was a black palfrey horse and Arya loved its black mane.

“You are better than these stupid grown-ups.”

“There you are, child,” a familiar rattling voice rang in her ears. When Arya turned around she realized that it was the ‘Crowfucker’ as the Hound had called him.

In the daylight his face looked even paler, his eyes blood-shot and his lips bluish.

He not only acted like a dead man walking, but also looked like one.

Yet, there was no sweet smell and he was talking to her as if he was a normal person.

_That must be my silly imagination._

“What do you want?” she asked and averted her gaze. “I don’t want to speak to you!”

“Your coin, child,” he replied and held out his hand to her.

Arya shuddered when she saw that his hand was as black as his eyes.

“What are you?” she asked and backed away. “Why does your hand look like that?”

“I don’t know,” he replied and simply placed the coin on the ground. “I don’t know.”

Arya picked the coin from the ground and ran off.

This place shouldn’t be called the Quiet Isle, but the Scary Isle.

…


	48. Dracarys

**Daenerys**

They left at dawn, six hundred Dothraki screamers and their Khal. About fifty of these men were bloodriders and seemed more than enthusiastic to take on the winged shadow as the Dothraki had dubbed her child.

 _A dragon is no slave_ , Dany knew and marveled how well her ploy had worked. _And would certainly not bow to a Dothraki horselord._

Viserion had liked Ben Plumm well enough, but she doubted her child would have accepted him as a rider. Even Dany had no complete control over Drogon, despite the blood of the dragon running through the veins. It made her wonder whether Viserys would have been able to ride one of her children…

 _He is gone_ , she reminded herself and squirmed in her saddle. _All I have are Jon and…the Mummer’s dragon._

 _Are we the three heads of the dragon_ , she wondered and cast her gaze to the sky. Or was that a delusion, Rhaegar?

Dany couldn’t say nor did she want to give the Mummer’s dragon one of her children and yet it wouldn’t be good for a dragon to remain unbonded forever.

_A dragon is no slave, but he needs guidance._

_Well, first I need to leave this place,_ she knew and watched as the Dothraki horde spread behind her as far as her eyes could see. Drogo’s whole Khalasar had covered the entire horizon, but Khal Jhaqo had only brought his most revered warriors.

 _He is no complete fool_ , she mused, though that would make her task only harder. One arrow was nothing but a needle prick to Drogon, but hundreds of them might even harm the winged shadow.

Mounting him would be even more difficult, but then she didn’t have to mount him to burn her enemies. Even as a fresh hatchling he had always obeyed her commands and yet she felt sick when she thought of burning these brave men.

 _Brave fools_ , Dany corrected herself. Jhaqo and Mago deserve to die for their cruelty against the Lhazareen girl she had tried to save, but the rest of these men were only following after their Khal, because they were bloodsworn to do so.

“A good day for hunting,” Mago remarked and led his horse beside hers. “The sky is bleeding.”

It was true what he had said. The sky looked like a white blanket drenched in blood, a handful of bright stars blinking on the distant horizon.

Dany knew this constellation.

 _The Stallion that Mounts the World_.

 _A sign by the gods_ , she had told the Dosh Khaleen. _A lie_.

Jhaqo seemed to believe her lie well enough, for he had come to see her barely a day later.

Dany had explained her plan and on the next day at sunset the Khal had brought with them what she had demanded: a horde of sheep.

“As you say,” Dany replied and averted her gaze when she noticed Mago’s greedy stare, his dark eyes fixed on her breasts visible through the thin garment. Dany had wanted to put on her tunic and leggings, but the Dosh Khaleen had demanded of her to wear the gifts Jhaqo had given her.

They had covered her entire body with the ceremonial war paint of Drogo’s khalsar. It was a fearsome kind of war paint, made from blood, piss and clay. Dried as it was now it smelled and made her nose wrinkle. 

“It is close to midday,” Khal Jhaqo added, his inky gaze narrowed against the bright sunlight. “And we have yet to see a glimpse of the winged shadow. Could it be that you misread the signs?”

“Visions are a difficult thing, my Khal,” Dany countered and brushed the sweat from her brow. “Perhaps your scouts gave us the wrong direction?”

“The black shadow was last seen east from Vaes Dothrak,” Haquo who had been tasked to watch her during their hunt had also asked for this honor. “I am sure of it, my Khal.”

“Good,” Khal Jhaqo replied and urged his horse into a gallop. Dany kicked her feed in the sides of his horse and followed after him. So, did the rest of his warriors, the song of their bells and war cries ringing in Dany’s ears.

It was a familiar song that had once filled her with happiness. Now she felt only dread when she thought of butchering these brave warriors.

 _It is the only way_ , she reminded herself and cast another glance to the sky. _My only way of escape._

As they continued their hunt, the landscape changed from the swaying grass of the Dothraki sea to a dustier landscape of soft hills and dry pastures. Now and then she could even see a tree.

The heat only increased, the world blurred and unreal and with no sign of Drogon’s black wings.

 _Where are you_ , she thought with growing tension. _Where are you, my child?_

Eventually, they arrived at a stream of green water meandering its way through the dry landscape. It was like an island of greenery among a sea of dust and heat.

Dany welcomed it and so did the Dothraki. They spent hours watering their horses and refreshing themselves in the cool water, but Mago’s satisfied smile didn’t escape her.

 _He wants to see me fail_ , she knew and sprinkled fresh water into her face. It felt cool and pleasant on her skin, but didn’t still the fear in her heart.

 _I am the blood of the dragon_ , she reminded herself and smiled at Haquo who handed her the waterskin. _I cannot show fear. A dog like Mago can smell it for sure._

“Thank you,” Dany told the young Dothraki warrior and filled the waterskin to the brim, before casting her gaze back to the sky that had by now changed to a pale blue color.

There was no cloud or bird to be seen, let alone a dragon.

“We will soon make camp and continue with our hunt on the morrow,” Haquo told her. “The Khal will be less displeased once he gets his fill of honeyed meat and a cup of wine. Not everyone is as impatient as Mago.”

“I hope so,” Dany sighed deeply and climbed back into her saddle. “I hope so.”

The sky changed from clear blue to a deep purple, the constellation of the Stallion burning brighter than ever before.

“See,” Haquo added enthusiastically and pointed at the stars. “We are close.”

Not long after they made camp. Dany watched as the Dothraki warriors built their camp and got a fire going to roast wild vegetables and pieces of dried meat.

The smell was delicious and the taste was even better. The meat was soft and spicy, but the vegetables were mild and had been dipped in butter. That her dizziness had eased since she had left Vaes Dothrak made it easier to eat.

She also liked the company of the Dothraki warriors. They sang and told her stories like Jhiqui and Irri used to do. Especially, Haquo seemed to like her company, though not in an unobtrusive manner like her bear. He treated her almost brotherly, like Viserys had done before he had turned mad.

Only when Mago was glowering at her from the distance did she feel fear.

That night she dreamed she was a dragon, her black wings spread wide and her hot breath devouring the army of frost-eyed men trying to cross the mighty river.

It was so cold, so very cold. The skin on her face burned and her toes and fingers felt numb. Within the blink of  a moment the tips had turned black like obsidian…

She unleashed her hot breath upon her enemies and they melted away like the morning mist…

“Rouse the whore from her sleep!” Mago’s cruel voice rang in her ears and through the thin fabric of the tent. “The Khal wants to move on. One of the scouts has seen the winged shadowed.”

The mention of Drogon roused her out of her stupor. She quickly put on her sandals, fastened her belt around her tunic and touched the hairpin in her hair, before she left her tent behind her.

Mago stood there, his face a grimace.

 _My success must anger him_ , she knew, but kept her thoughts to herself. Haquo’s presence gave her the courage she needed. By now she knew their names and had also found out that they too had been part of Drogo’s khalasar, which was probably the reason they were so courteous to her.

“I heard the good news,” Dany replied with a smile and tried to forget about the nasty smell of the war paint. “We should move on.”

Mago spat on the ground and left.

Not long after, they were back on their horses, the sky before them still cast in darkness and only lightened by the stars.

A purple bruise started to show on the distant horizon after they had crossed a silver stream and had found the ruins Haquo had told her about.

Not much was left of this city, but crumbling walls and faded paintings. Clouds of red dust washed over them and made her eyes water as the riders poured through the ruins.

Dany tried to imagine what this city must have looked like a hundred years ago. She saw high colorful walls, fountains, green orchards, a bustling street and looming above them all was the stepped temple and only building in this city that had remained intact.

It must have once been a magnificent temple, but now the roof was torn on one side and the lower walls were covered with scorch marks. Whoever had pillaged this city must have put the temple aflame.

Yet, that was not the only thing they found as they wandered through the deserted city.

They found scorched bones littered all over the ruins.

A strange foreboding overcame Dany as she took another glance at the scorched walls of the stepped temple.

Mayhaps she was wrong. Mayhaps someone else had inflicted these wounds upon this magnificent ruin.

“My son was here,” Dany told Jhaqo. “We should make camp here and prepare for his coming.”

Jhaqo nodded his head in understanding and commanded his warriors to make camp beneath the crumbling walls of the temple.

By sunset, the smell of the cookfires and spice filled her nose, but tonight she felt no longing for food. The familiar feeling of sickness washed over her as she watched Haquo and the other men eat. Not long after, she excused herself to make water and emptied her stomach.

She washed the taste away with a bowl of fermented milk, before she  was led to Jhaqo who had demanded her presence.

“We should butcher the sheep by sunrise,” Dany told him after she had taken her honorary seat beneath his feet. They had even brought her a cushion, but she still felt like a prisoner. “The smell of the blood will lure my son here.”

Jhaqo put his cup away and brushed the wine stains from his lips. He was clearly drunk and there was an expression in his eyes that made her uncomfortable.

 _I should be careful or he might forget that I am a Dosh Khaleen_ , Dany realized and touched hair hairpin to reassure herself. _He can try, but then I shall blind him forever._

“I saw the bones,” Jhaqo told her and laughed vigorously as he leaned down and grabbed her chin between his fingers. “The scorched bones were not the work of a common animal. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Dany confirmed and took a gulp from her cup of milk. They had offered her plenty of wine, but she had refused, because she would need a clear head once Drogon came for her. “But many a man has underestimated me.”

“Mago certainly has,” Jhaqo agreed and brushed his hand over her shoulder. Dany shuddered, but tried her best to conceal her disgust with a smile. “But he always was a jealous fool. Do you know what he asked of me?”

Dany tried to sound innocent and leaned into his touch.

“What did he ask of you?”

“That I would hand you over if you were to prove yourself a liar,” Jhaqo replied and chuckled. “I refused him of course. To show him his place.”

“That was wise of you,” Dany agreed and couldn’t help but to clench her teeth when he touched her silver locks, but to refuse him would be madness.

 “He is not the Khal of Khals.”

“And you are a Dosh Khaleen,” he told her and put his hand on her hip, pulling her closer. “I would dishonor Drogo, but then he never cared much about traditions either. I have only kept my distance because it was expected of me.  Yet according to you I am not only Khal Jhaqo but the Khal of Khals. Why should I respect old laws that damn a beautiful woman like you to a life of nothing You could yet bear me an heir and keep my bed warm.”

Dany tried to hold still and graced him with a smile. She didn’t want to anger him unnecessarily.

“They say a man’s cock withers if he touches a Dosh Khaleen,” Dany reminded him gently.

“They also say a girl that becomes a widow should be mounted to drive away her sorrows,” Jhaqo teased and grabbed her head, before he forced his tongue into her mouth.

Dany felt the urge to gag and instinctively bit his lips, drawing blood.

He pulled away and gave her a stunned look.

Instinctively, she forced a smile over her lips.

Strangely, he didn’t seem displeased.

“Ah, I think I am beginning to understand why Drogo liked you,” he laughed and waved his hand at the other bloodriders in his presence.

“Leave us you fools!” he shouted and grinned at Dany. “I think I wish to ride a dragon!”

Dany had expected so much and bit her lip.

 _Never_ , she thought, a feeling of defiance rising inside her. _I had whored myself out for Viserys. Not again._

 _But I have to be careful_ , she thought and played along, following him to his tent.

She would strike once the time was ripe. She had no sword, but the sharp tip of ‘his gift’ should serve him well.

There were no guards. It seemed the Khal of Khals didn’t deem her dangerous enough _. Good. That will make it easier._

When they entered the tent he she pulled off her belt and discarded her dress just as quickly, leaving her bare. It was better than to allow him to do it.

It made her feeling in control of the situation.

He grinned as he took in her nakedness and discarded his own clothing.

Dany had seen quite a lot of cocks in her seventeen years on this earth, but this one didn’t impress her at all. She had to bite her lips to keep herself from laughing out loud. It felt almost unreal.

“Do I not please you?” he asked with drunken confidence.

Dany forced another smile over her lips and braced herself. It was good that she had vomited before, but it was the only way to get close enough.

“You please me,” she assured him with a soft chuckle and stroke both his ego and manhood like Doreah had shown her almost a lifetime ago.

He moaned and his head fell backwards, his eyes shut.

Dany didn’t hesitate to grab for her pin and plunged the sharp end between his legs and right into his soft flesh.

A piercing cry escaped his lips, hot blood splattering her face and lower body as she twisted the pin free and repeated her action.

She had expected the Khal of Khals to put up a fight, but all he had managed to do was grab a fistful of hair, before she had plunged the pin into his arm.

As he was screaming, Dany freed herself and hauled herself at Jhaqo.

He fell backwards, Dany atop of him and her bloody hairpin still in hand.

Beneath her pooled a puddle of blood as the Khal of Khals was trying to hold together what was left of his cock and balls.

The sight should have sickened her, but she felt nothing but the rush of fear surging through her body that stirred her back into action.

“You showed no mercy to Eroeh,” Dany whispered before she plunged the pin deep into his eye socket. The eye popped and blood coated her hand once more, but that didn’t make much of a difference as she was already drenched with blood.

When the Khal of Khals moved no more, Dany pulled on her dress and slipped out of the tent, running as fast as her bare feet could carry her, but Mago had already found her.

“Get the whore!” he shouted, his curved blade raised. “Get her!”

In that moment the world was silenced by a dragon’s roar, a crimson flame spurting from the ruins of the temple like a beacon of light.

Mago froze when Drogon came crawling out of his lair, his crimson eyes dangerous to behold.

Dany felt a current of heat washing over her as his massive head loomed above her.

Mago opened his mouth in silence and Dany gave the command.

“Dracarys!”

The ball of flames had barely engulfed Mago, before Dany wheeled around and hauled herself at Drogon’s back, the world around her erupting in chaos.

Dany didn’t care. The heat and smoke made her eyes burn, but she continued to move.

“Drogon!” she shouted at her child and pulled herself up along his scaled back. Her feet were bare and she nearly slipped, but every time she managed to hold onto his scales. “Drogon!”

All the while she heard the arrows snapping over her head, as Drogon lashed out at the approaching riders. Some unleashed arrows at the dragon and others attacked with their curved blades, storming straight at the dragons.

They were madman, these Dothraki, but Drogon didn’t care. He unleashed a stream of fire upon them, their bright screams filling her ears once more.

Dany shuddered and continued to climb, sweat rolling down her cheeks. Drogon’s skin felt hot. It was like running over hot coals.

“Drogon!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. It was her only weapon as she had lost her whip. “Drogon! Stop!”

Drogon finally calmed, but the Dothraki had no intention to give up.

The Dothraki warriors unleashed another volley of arrows upon them that would have probably pierced Dany had Drogon not bent his neck to the side to protect her.

Yet, that was only the beginning of their struggle. Another volley of arrows snapped over her head and this time Dany had had to press herself close to Drogon’s body to protect herself.

Suddenly, she heard another roar. A much louder one, like spring thunder rolling over a herd of sheep.

As she lifted her gaze to the sky she was confronted with a familiar sight. A sight that made her heart grow lighter.

It was Rhaegal, his  jade-green wings glittering in the torchlight like polished gemstones.

Her child roared loudly, before he unleashed a stream of flames upon the Dothraki riders.

They were beautiful to behold; waves of orange-and-yellow flames with veins of green washed over the men, their creams drowned out by her Rhaegal’s fearsome roar.

Dany didn’t let her opportunity go to waste, holding tight unto Drogon’s neck as she shouted her next command at the top of her lungs.

“Fly! Fly! Fly!”

This time, Drogon heard her and stirred to life. Dany clenched her teeth as she tried her best to hold tightly unto her child’s back.

It was a strange feeling. The hot skin beneath her made her feel as if she was burning alive as she tried to make out the blurred world before.

It was a beautiful sight. A sea of stars spreading before her as far as the eye could see. She would have gladly drowned in it…

It was Rhaegal’s cry that woke her from her beautiful dream and caused her to lift her head.

Rhaegal was soaring above her, his wings spread wide.

It was only then that she noticed person clinging to his back. The black garb made it hard to see Jon, but the scabbard fastened on his hip reflected the moonlight like a mirror.

Dany blinked once, twice and a third time. She couldn’t believe it. Jon was riding a dragon.

Relief washed over her and she threw a quick glance over her shoulder.

Behind her spread only darkness, the cookfires of the Dothraki camp growing ever distant.

When it was nothing more than a glimmer of light, Dany pulled herself up and shouted her command at Drogon, her loose hair slapping into her face.

“Drogon! Down! Down!”

Dany nearly slipped as Drogon had dipped lower. She had expected that he would obey her command, but it had never happened this quickly.

Rhaegal followed suit, but perhaps it was Jon who had told him to do it.

Not that Dany cared. She was just overjoyed to find him alive.

Her heart skipped a beat as she stumbled from Drogon’s back, her feet wobbly and still covered in blood, dust and sweat.

She probably smelled terrible. Like a heap of dung.

Yet, all that was forgotten when she heard Jon’s voice.

“Dany…,” he said, his body cast in shadows and the cloak she had gifted him so long ago tattered like the plume of a bird.

His voice snapped her out of her trance and then she was rushing towards him.

When she was only a handful of steps away from his shadowed form, she leapt into his embrace.

She couldn’t see his face, but he was warm and she could hear his heartbeat.

She kissed him once, twice and then a third time, her fingers twining through his long hair.

“Jon,” she asked, her voice hoarse and distant to her ears. “You are riding Rhaegal?”

“Aye,” he confirmed, a breathless laugh leaving his mouth. She wished she could see his face properly, but it was too dark. “But it took me longer than expected to get here. Rhaegal and I had some disagreements…,” he trailed off.

Then, he turned around and looked at Rhaegal.

“Isn’t that so?”

Rhaegal gave a roar and turned away to join Drogon. Almost as if he was annoyed by Jon’s teasing.

Dany chuckled.

“He always was of the sensible kind.”

…


	49. The Mummer's Dragon

Aegon had visited Volantis three times in his young life. Once when he was a boy of six, once when he was ten and three to fit new clothing and the last time when he was ten and six and had accompanied Lord Connington to meet an old friend.

This man Aegon recalled well, both in face and character.

His face had been an ugly one, jug-eared, big- nosed and with a crooked jaw, yet all of that was forgotten when he had opened his mouth, for Ser Myles Toyne had been a man full of life with a smile so sharp that it could have easily cut through steel. Among his men he had been commonly known as the Blackheart, for the sigil of his house.

That was all Aegon had known about him during their final meeting. For Aegon he had been nothing but an exiled knight and old friend of Lord Connington, but now as he took in the golden skull atop a pole that had once been Blackheart Toyne he knew that this man had been much more than that. He had been the Captain-General of the Golden Company.

And he too, like so many other people in his life, had been part of the conspiracy that surrounded Aegon like a net spreading to places he didn’t even know about. It was a net woven Lord Varys or the Spider as Lord Connington called him. _Or my old friend_ , as Magister Illyrio liked to call him.

To Aegon he was a stranger that had come and went throughout his life, almost like the shadows that perished at the coming of nightfall.

Thus, Aegon had never been able to build any attachments towards this man or towards the Magister, though he had resided in the Magister’s mansion until he was a boy of five. His memories from this time were blurred, but he clearly recalled his first meeting with Lord Connington. His red beard had fascinated Aegon and he had asked him if he hailed from Tyrosh or some other land he didn’t know and where men sported beards of fiery red hair.

 _Westeros_ , Lord Connington had answered, tears swimming in his blue eyes. _That is where I hail from. Your home._

Aegon hadn’t understood the meaning of these words until much later. He was five when the Magister had made him color his silver hair and had sent him away to live with Jon Connington on the pole-boat commonly called the _Shy Maid_. First, it had been a grand adventure, but the more time had passed the lonelier he had felt. Sure, there had been Lord Connington, Duck, Yandry, Ysilla and Haldon to attend to his every need, but what he had missed the most had been the company of other children. Even when he had still resided in the Magister’s mansion he hadn’t been allowed to play with the other children, but he had done it anyway. By now he had forgotten their names. They would sneak around in the gardens, play ball games or take a quick plunge into the pond to catch goldfish.

All these simple things he had been deprived of when he had been sent to live on the pole-boat that had become his second home. From that day on, he had been pushed towards his destiny, to regain the crown the Usurper had stolen from his father. Until the day Lord Connington had revealed the truth to him, Aegon had always assumed that his nursemaid was his mother and that his father had been an old friend of Magister Illyrio who had been generous enough to care for him or bring him up as his heir, which wouldn’t been an uncommon practice, especially after the Magister had remained childless through his many marriages.

The day he had been told the truth, all his past dreams and hopes had been shattered. He was no longer Aegon, but Prince Aegon, the heir of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell who had been murdered by the hands of Robert Baratheon and Lord Tywin Lannister, both men he had been told to despise.

Even so, his parents had been ghosts to him and all he had were the imagines he had built up in his head as children often do with the heroes from the songs. He had always imagined his father as tall and beautiful as Lord Connington had often described him and how he had bravely fought in the rushing waters of the River Trident to defeat the horned demon that wanted to take everything he held dear.

To imagine his mother had been even more difficult. Lord Connington had always described her as dutiful and sickly, but Aegon had always imagined her as the most beautiful he could think of. Thus, the imagine of his mother had been made up by the imagine of every beautiful woman he had met in his young life. For a time, he had even pretended that she looked like Septa Lemore. Deep in his heart he had known that it was a lie, but he couldn’t help it. His real mother was a ghost and Lemore had been there, loving and caring for him.

Now he felt only rage when he thought of Lemore or better said Lady Lyanna…the whore that had seduced his father and had fooled him for so many years.

“Your Grace,” Lord Connington’s tense voice rang in his ears. “Your Grace.”

As Aegon turned around he found him flanked by his cousin Prince Quentyn Martell and Duck.

It was a strange sight to behold.

Lord Connington looked like a true Lord, still tall and strong, though his beard was covered with grey streaks. Yet, compared to Quentyn, Aegon’s rather short and stocky cousin he looked like a giant. Still, Lord Connington’s height was nothing compared to Duck, who stood half and head taller than the Lord of Griffin Roost.

“Will he see me now?” Aegon asked impatiently and opened his clenched fist.

He had enough of waiting. First, his Aunt had received him like a stranger and had played her games with him and now this Harrys Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company was conspiring with Lord Varys, but had yet to meet with Aegon privately.

Aegon was sick of it all, being treated like a puppet and being directed by men he didn’t know.

Was he not a King? It was time to cut his strings and stand on his own two feet.

“Aye, Harry Strickland will see you now…as do his sergeants and Lord Varys.”

Aegon nodded his head and touched the hilt of his word. He had been taught many things during his time one the pole-boat, but swordplay he had always liked and excelled at.

“I shall be pleased to meet him,” Aegon confirmed and graced his travelling companions with a warm smile. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Lord Connington confirmed as he pushed aside the golden flaps of the tent. It was made of a gleaming cloth of gold that was fit for a King, but in truth it was just the tent of the Captain-General whom Lord Connington usually referred to as _Homeless Harry_.

Aegon followed after him, but not before he had taken a last glance at the men of the Golden Company. They sat outside their tents, dicing, drinking and singing songs. These were the men that would fight for him and so far he had only made the acquaintance of one of them, a certain Ser Franklyn Flowers, the ugliest man Aegon had ever laid eyes on.

As expected, Aegon found him among the men assembled in the tent. He was big-bellied, shambling hulk of a man, his seamed face crisscrossed with old scars.

Despite, his ugly appearance, Aegon had liked him immediately. There was something pleasant about his bluntness. It was something he had always liked about Lemore. She had always treated him like a normal boy.

 _That was probably part of her mummery_ , he thought, fresh bitterness stirring inside his heart. _To win my trust._

As they entered, the high officers of the Golden Company rose from their stools and chairs. Some greeted Lord Connington with smiles and others seized him up with curious looks.

 _They think me a boy_ , he knew and tried to hide his discomfort behind a blank face. _Not a King._

Lord Connington introduced them.  Many of the men bore bastard names. There were Rivers, Hills, Stones and others that had claimed names that had once belonged to forgotten houses from the Seven Kingdoms, families Aegon only knew from his dusty history tomes. There were two Strongs, three Peakes, a Mudd, a Mandrake, a Lothston and a pair of Coles. Despite their poor bloodline, they sported jeweled swords, inlaid armor, heavy torcs and fine silks.  Yet, despite the abundance of Westerosi names, there were also those that were not of Westerosi blood.

There was a Summer Islander called Black Balaq, who had white hair and skin as dark as soot. He was commander of the archers and wore the most colorful of garb, a feathered cloak of green and orange.

There was also a certain Gorys Edoryen, who was the paymaster of the company. He wore a leopard skin swept over his shoulders, his hair oiled ringlets that freely spilled to his shoulders.

The spymaster, a Lyseni with lilac eyes and golden hair, was named Lysono Maar. At first glance, Aegon had taken him for a woman. His earlobes were dripped with pearls and glittering amethysts and his lips were full like a rose petal in bloom. 

Harry Strickland was neither ugly nor beautiful. He didn’t even look much like a warrior. He was of a portly built with mild grey eyes and thinning hair that he kept brushed sideways to conceal his balding head.

That he was currently soaking his feet in a tub of saltwater made the whole situation all the stranger.

Yet, it was not his presence that bothered Aegon the most. It was the man with the bare head and the silken robe. Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers.

This man had saved him from the Usurper’s swords by exchanging him for an innocent babe from Pisswater Bay and yet Aegon couldn’t help but to mistrust the man. Neither Lord Connington nor Lemore had ever spoken a single kind word about him.

 _He served too many Kings_ , Lord Connington had said to Haldon. _And he will be the first one to lose his head. There will be no more Spiders to disturb Aegon’s peaceful reign._

“You will pardon me if I do not rise,” Harry Strickland said in a friendly tone. “Our march was hard and my toes are prone to blisters.”

Aegon didn’t know what to make of his words, but minded his manners.

“It is no bother,” Aegon assured him, his gaze flickering to Lord Varys. “It is no wonder that you are exhausted. You broke your contract for me. You have my thanks for that, Captain Strickland.”

“The gold offered to us by your generous supporter certainly helped,” Strickland replied and waved his hand at his squire. “Wat, bring wine for us.”

“For me only water,” Lord Connington insisted.

“And for me only half a cup,” Aegon countered as he turned to look at Quentyn and Rolly. “What about you, cousin? Will you take wine?”

“Sure,” Prince Quentyn replied shyly. He looked lost among these men of war and deprived of his companions. Aegon had wanted to bring them to the meeting, but Lord Connington deemed it unfitting.

Aegon envied them. Arch and Drink as they called themselves were probably enjoying themselves while he had to play King.

“A cup for me as well,” Rolly added awkwardly.

Aegon chuckled.

“Was that ever a question?”

“No,” Rolly replied and brushed his hand through his tousled red hair. “That was never a question.”

Aegon nodded his head and shifted his attention back to Strickland.

Now was no time for jesting. Now was the time to plan a war.

“You know why I came here, Captain Strickland,” Aegon told him and tried to sound kingly. “I wish to retake the Iron Throne and I want the Golden Company to be part of this endeavor. That is what you have been paid for.”

“I know so much,” Strickland replied and pulled his feet from the tube. His squire Wart brought him a pair of striped stockings which Strickland pulled on while he continued to speak, his gaze fixed on Lord Varys. “But we were told to expect a King and a Queen to raise up and send us home. Yet, you come alone. Why is that?”

“My Aunt is occupied with her conquered cities,” Aegon lied. “We shall sail alone.”

Strickland seemed unhappy with his answer.

“Daenerys Targaryen supposedly crushed the slavers at Yunkai. Why does she linger? Did she refuse you?”

“She did not,” Aegon lied again. “But I found out that our union would most likely lead to the extinction of House Targaryen. According to her own admission, she is supposedly barren, a result of her failed marriage to this Khal Drogo.”

At the mention of Khal Drogo, Aegon had lifted his head and was now looking directly at Lord Varys.

“A match that was the result of your plotting, wasn’t it, Lord Varys? She was supposed to be my bride and you sold her like a common whore. Why?”

If Lord Varys was shaken by his words, it didn’t show on his face. He smiled calmly, his voice soft like the sound of a harp.

“She was never supposed to stay wed to the Khal, your Grace,” he explained and dipped his head. “She was meant to be saved by your hands.”

Aegon felt the urge to laugh. It was all so clear. Of course, they had planned another one of their mummeries…

Was that what his future would look like? A long string of never-ending mummeries?

“I understand,” Aegon replied and clenched is teeth. Whether he liked it or not, he had need of the man in front of him. Lord Connington had told him so much. “And you are forgiven, Lord Varys. I suppose even the most cunning men commit errors.”

Lord Varys’ smile was as bright as a star.

“I am thankful, your Grace.”

 _And I would gladly present your head to my Aunt_ , Aegon and forced a smile over his lips.

“Now back to the topic at hand,” Aegon added and tapped his fingers on the table in front of him as he sought Strickland’s gaze once more. “As I said…my Aunt is most likely barren and her current interests are tied to Slaver’s Bay. We shall also have the help of my Uncle, Prince Doran Martell.”

“Prince Doran Martell?” Lysono Maar asked and wrinkled his brows. “Your mother’s kin. How can you be sure of their support?”

“Through me,” his cousin assured them loudly. Lord Connington had insisted on keeping Quentyn’s true identity hidden. Now they knew. “Prince Quentyn Martell.”

“Dorne is rich,” Strickland added approvingly. “And would be a good landing place for an invasion. “But they are not exactly known for their military prowess. The Reach…now that would be a fat prize.”

“Lord Mace Tyrell tied himself to the Lannisters when he wed his daughter to the Kingslayer,” Lord Varys tittered. “But then one shouldn’t underestimate Lord Tyrell’s ambition. How can the Kingslayer compare to a Targaryen King?”

Strickland frowned.

“Are you trying to imply that the Tyrell’s might change their cloak for our King?”

“Mace Tyrell would strangle a hundred puppies to see his daughter crowned,” Lord Connington scoffed. It was all he had ever hoped for from the day he first spurted his seed into his wife. I remember how he was most eager to arrange a match between Princess Rhaenys and his son Willas. Back then the boy was not yet a cripple and many believed Princess Elia would never conceive again. Some even believed Prince Rhaegar would soon take his father’s head. Well, the birth of Aegon destroyed Lord Tyrell’s grand plans and the Rebellion turned him into a traitor.”

“And our King’s return might remind him of his old loyalties,” Lord Varys countered. “The Tyrell girl might not longer be a maid, but better a fertile girl with fifty-thousand swords at her back than nothing.”

“And the Kingslayer’s brood in her belly,” Lord Connington grumbled.

“Nothing a cup of a moon tea can’t solve,” Lord Varys added sweetly.

Aegon felt only disgust, but perhaps that was another thing he had to get used to.

“I shall wed and bed whoever maid or girl you see fit,” Aegon replied determinedly and swept his gaze over the crowd of people. “I am only a green boy, but the blood of the dragon runs through my veins. I cannot promise you success, but I can promise you that shall reward you all handsomely for your loyalty.”

_With the gold I received from Magister Illyrio. My half-brother was not wrong. I am truly a beggar. Well, I shall put my falsely-acquired wealth to work. For when they see me again I shall look down on them from the Iron Throne. Then, my Aunt will hopefully see her folly. Then, she will abandon the bastard and join her trueborn blood…_

Strickland remained hesitant and searched Aegon’s face.

“Nobody says that you have to wed her, but to return without her support seems quite a risky ploy to me, your Grace. The Lords of the Seven Kingdoms might mock your supposed claim.”

“Then I shall prove them wrong,” Aegon replied with feigned determination. “And when the time comes I shall welcome my Aunt home. I am sure she will be pleased to receive help to stabilize her ever-spreading kingdom in the east. And when she is old and grey…Well, who will inherit these lands if she has no heirs of her own? My children.”

“So much is true,” Lysono agreed. “A kingdom without an heir is doomed to fall into chaos.”

“Yet, there is another matter we should take into consideration,” Strickland added. ”Stannis Baratheon has claimed the Iron Throne. What makes you think he will yield the crown to you, your Grace?”

“Stannis Baratheon is no danger to our King,” Lord Varys promised. “His realm is falling apart as we speak. The Kingslayer is sharpening his fangs in the west. Robb Stark abandoned him to fight the Ironborn. All Stannis Baratheon has are the Stormlords, some Lords from the Reach, the Crownlands and the ever splintered Riverlords. Half of them will flock to Aegon’s banner the moment they hear about his return. Lord Hoster Tully was not kind to those that kept their loyalty to House Targaryen. Most importantly, Stannis Baratheon is even less liked than the Kingslayer. His Red Witch makes those devoted to the Faith uncomfortable, especially Lord Hightower, who could be a valuable ally in our future plans.”

This roused Aegon’s curiosity.

“How so?”

“Lord Hightower’s son was most devoted to your Lady Mother, your Grace,” Lord Varys explained. “But that is not the only reason. House Hightower was always close to the Faith. They would not bow to a heathen King.”

“And Dorne shall join you too,” Quentyn added awkwardly and searched Strickland’s face. “I see not why you are cautious to act? I thought the men of the Golden Company were brave.”

“I am no craven, my boy,” Strickland replied, his voice laced with anger. “The gold Magister Illyrio was more than generous, but I love these men as if they are my own children. I do not wish to see them butchered needlessly.”

“I understand that,” Aegon assured him and searched his face. “But I am sure of it. I am the only dragon you need.”

Lord Connington patted Aegon’s shoulder and flashed Strickland an icy look.

“Stop acting a craven, Strickland. Toyne would bloody your nose for your hesitation.”

“I would rather die in Westeros,” one of the men chuckled. Aegon vaguely recalled that he was named Marq Mandrake. “Then to rot here in Essos until the end of my days.”

“I rather have a nice castle to keep me warm,” added a man whom Aegon recalled as Tristan Rivers. “And a wife would be nice. A wife with big tits.”

“I rather kill a handful of Fassoways!” Ser Franklyn added cheerfully. His mother had been supposedly raped by a Fassoway. At least, that is what he had told Aegon over a cup of wine. “Time to cut some green apples!”

When Aegon heard the men’s excited whispers, Aegon knew that he had won them over.

Strickland’s face was as red as a lobster as the men laid their swords at his feet.

He rose at last to do the same.

He was another man Aegon couldn’t trust, but perhaps that was for the best.

It seemed trust was not something a King could afford.

...


	50. Blood of my Blood

**Jon**

The sun was descending in the east when they landed near a water place to rest. They had flown for hours, but made regular breaks as the dragons had the tendency to get to restive when they are exhausted.

_Almost like children_ , Jon thought as he watched Rhaegal curl his spiky tale around his body after he had dug a hole into the ground. Drogon was double his size and was feasting on a mountain lion he had picked up from the ground as if he was nothing boy a child’s toy.

The carcass was black and steaming and if they were lucky they would get some leftovers.

His stomach was growling at the smell of the meat.

“Drogon looks hungry. I doubt he will leave food for us,” Dany remarked with a chuckle as she continued to wash her tattered dress in the water. It had been drenched with blood and grime from the war paint that had covered her entire body. Now there were only a handful of stains left on her arms and legs, but a quick wash had helped to remove most of it.

Jon frowned as he sat down beside her near the shore. The water place was nothing more than a small puddle in a sea of dust and heat, but it went deep and the water was cool and clean.

_There might even be some fish to catch,_  Jon mused as he watched the rippling movements of the dark green water. They were caused by Dany, who was still trying to clean her dress.

Jon understood why. It was her only garment, besides the tattered cloak he had given her to cover herself. Even her feet were bare and her silver hair was shorter than he recalled.

_It burned off_ , she had told him when he had watched her unwind the knots in her tangle of silver locks. _I have to thank Drogon for that._

Jon didn’t care. She was still the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

_You would look pretty even without hair_ , he had teased her in return and had earned himself a startling smile.

_I looked like that after I birthed my children_ , she had explained to him.  _The fire burned away all my hair._

Jon had tried to imagine Dany without hair, both on her head and between her legs. Some of the whores in Volantis had shaved away their hair, which had both surprised and confused him.

The thought made his cheeks burn with shame.

I shouldn’t be thinking about such inappropriate things given our dire situation.

Dany had avoided telling him every detail about her stay with the Dothraki, but Jon couldn’t imagine that it had been a pleasant experience given her bloody dress.

The sight had angered him and had made him wish that he had reached her sooner.

“I doubt that is much use,” Jon added hesitatingly. “ I think it would be better for you to keep my cloak and take a proper bath.”

Dany sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps you are right. A Queen shouldn’t smell like a heap of dung when she returns to the city she is ruling.”

Jon doubted the others would care.

“I am sure everyone will be relieved to have you back, but I agree. I think we both need a proper bath,” Jon added and jerked his head at the water, shrugging off his boots as he went. His breeches and tunic followed, the cool water embracing him like a mother her child.

The cool water washing over him made him sigh. He never wanted to leave, but his need for air forced him to return back to the surface.

Not much to his surprise, he found Dany smiling back at him, her wet hair clinging to her flushed face.

“That was quick,” Jon teased and splashed a handful of water into her face. “But then you had an advantage.”

“Fool!” she had squealed and had retaliated quickly. “Ah! It’s cold!”

Jon had quickly grabbed her by the waist, struggling with her for dominance like children in a wrestling match.

She prove faster than anticipated and slipped out of his grasp after she had kicked him, though she had been kind enough to avoid his groin.

Jon clenched his teeth when she had brushed his wound.

Dany froze, her violet eyes glittering with fear.

“Gods,” she gasped and touched his cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“It is a mere cut,” Jon informed her and squeezed her hand, directing her back to the shore, where he sat down to examine the wound that had been knitted together by Lady Lyanna.

_My mother_ , he reminded himself and was relieved to see that the wound had continued to heal. It made him wonder if she cared that he was gone. She certainly hadn’t cared enough to stay with him.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her again as he pulled on his breeches, followed by his tunic and boots. “But I should have been more careful. We don’t have time for this. We ought to return as quickly as possible.”

Dany sighed and picked up his tattered cloak from the ground to wrap the garment around her body. “We should be able to make it on the morrow…that is if we fly all day and my two stubborn children are willing to obey.”

Jon chuckled and brushed his wet hair out of his face, before lying back on the green grass that sprawled a few leagues along the water place.

Jon could have stayed forever in this place. The sound of rushing water was better than a lullaby.

Yet, he also longed for a different kind of place. The godswood of Winterfell and the feeling of snowflakes melting in his hair.

If all went well they would soon return home.

Strangely, that prospect filled Jon with more fear than anticipated.

More than a thousand times he had imagined facing his brother and uncle, but it always felt unreal, as if he had stepped right into a nightmare.

“Jon,” Dany’s voice caused him to lift his head and turn to his side. “Did you hear what I said?”

“No,” Jon replied honestly and brushed his hair out of his face once more. “What did you say?”

“I said that that I do not know what to do with Aegon.”

He understood what Dany meant. Aegon hadn’t done much to endear himself to Jon, calling him a bastard and what not, but then he also understood his anger to a certain extent, especially when it came to his mother.

“I think Aegon is jealous,” Jon offered as a possible explanation for his headless actions in trying to mount Viserion. “And impatient to return home.”

“That our meeting didn’t go as he expected, probably added to his dissatisfaction. And the fact that I won’t bear him silver-haired heirs was probably the cherry on the top.”

“Still, no reason to kill your men and trying to steal a dragon.”

“Steal is the wrong word, though,” Dany countered unhappily and shook out her wet hair. “The dragons are my children, but they are not my property. A dragon is no slave and chooses his rider independently. Truly, all Aegon had to do was show a little bit of patience and I might have let him try mounting Viserion. I just wanted to be sure if I can trust him.”

“Sadly, he has shown that he cannot be trusted.”

“True,” Dany agreed and averted her gaze. “But I cannot disprove his claims. Killing him…I don’t think I want to do that…I allowed Drogo to kill Viserys and for a time I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I am thinking that my bareness was my punishment for killing my own blood.”

“He threatened your child,” Jon reminded her and touched her shoulder. “A true brother wouldn’t have done that. Besides, I doubt you would be here if Viserys had lived.”

Dany lifted her head and gave him a hesitant smile.

“You are probably right, but thinking of Viserys’ death makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes, I dream of him…he is begging me to spare him and I can’t bear to look at him in those dreams.”

“You loved him despite his cruelty,” Jon summed up her feelings.

It was similar with his Uncle. He felt anger whenever he thought about the lies he had given him, but then he could have also handed him over to Robert Baratheon. He committed treason for his sake, though that didn’t excuse his other actions…

Yet, despite Jon’s grudge couldn’t imagine ever harming Lord Eddard Stark.

He was a Targaryen. So much he had accepted by now, but he was also half a Stark and Arya would always be his sister. The same could be said about Robb, Bran, Rickon and Sansa.

They were his family as was Dany and perhaps even this…Aegon, this half-brother that saw him as nothing but a bastard. Mayhaps Lady Lyanna as well, once he found it in him to overlook her past actions.

_She is my mother_ , he reminded himself again and recalled his fight with Aegon. _I defended her._

Yet, when he had seen Aegon’s tears he had also realized that this supposed brother of his had been hurt by his mother’s mummery.

And while Jon had defended his mother against his supposed half-brother, he had also understood his pain.

He too had been bereft of a ‘true mother’, because his father hadn’t done what should have done, namely bring Lady Lyanna back to her family or at least come forward and explain his intentions.

_That is what I would have done_ , Jon thought and watched as the first stars appeared on the distant horizon.

Mayhaps then Robert Baratheon would have never been able to seize the crown.

Then Dany and Aegon could have grown up safely and mayhaps even his cruel Uncle Viserys would have turned out right. He certainly wouldn’t have had a chance to sell Dany to a Khal.

_She would have probably grown up like a Princess and I… I might not have existed at all._

And mayhaps that would have been better for all. Catelyn Stark certainly thought so when she had wished him the life of a cripple.

Jon must have been cursed at birth. A child of an unholy marriage wouldn’t be liked by the gods.

That he was an oathbreaker only added to his shame.

Yet, whenever he looked at Dany he realized that he would have never met her if his foolish father hadn’t wed his mother.

It wasn’t a state he longed for, a world without knowing her.

It was a selfish thought, but then all love was selfish to a certain extent.

_The death of duty_ , Maester Aemon had called it.   _Our greatest gift and our greatest tragedy._

“Jon!” Dany’s voice and pull on his shoulder roused him back from his whirl of thoughts. “Where is your mind?”

“With my brother. I think we ought to be careful how we handle him.”

Dany nodded her head and embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Her silver hair tickled his nose and his eyes grew heavy, the longing for food suddenly gone.

“You look tired,” she said, her warm breath brushing his cheek. “I shall watch over the dragons.”

She was about to sit up, but Jon grabbed waist, keeping her in place.

“You ought to rest too.”

She chuckled and lay back down.

“Perhaps you are right.”

Sleep came easy that night as the heat had tired him out.

It was the rolling sound of horse hooves that roused him from his peaceful slumber.

Jon instinctively grabbed for his sword and swept his gaze over the dragons. Rhaegal had stirred as well and Drogon had opened his eyes, snapping his tail left and right as was watched the approaching horde of riders.

Jon’s heart raced as he watched their approach, their cries echoing in his ears like the booming sound of spring thunder.

Rhaegal must have felt his tension, because he pulled himself to his full height, smoke rising from his nostrils.

“Gods be good,” Dany gasped and held unto Jon’s shoulder after she had roused from her sleep.

“Go!” Jon told her and pushed her towards Drogon.” “Quickly.”

Jon followed close and was about to climb on Rhaegal’s back when the first  riders enclosed them in a formation that was reminiscent of a noose closing around a man’s neck.

Yet, they didn’t unleash arrows upon them, which confused Jon.

“Wait!” Dany called to Jon when one of the riders stopped his horse at an appropriate distance. “I know him.”

Jon couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he looked young, the bells on his braid ringing softly as he moved.

“Dany! What are you doing?” Jon called after her, but she had already dismounted and was back on the ground, holding her dress in place with one hand as she spoke to the young man in the coarse tongue of the Dothraki.

Jon understood no word, but the young man’s reply was short and a heartbeat later he was kneeling before Dany offering his curved blade to her like a knight giving his oaths of loyalty to his lord.

Dany gave a quick answer and smiled as she touched the blade.

The young man rose again and many more of the warriors that had accompanied him came forward, repeating the young man’s actions.

Jon could only stare in confusion as he watched these people that had followed them all the way.

Most were warriors, but there were also women and children.

Dany seemed pleased to see them and even picked up one of the children, speaking to each of them as if she knew them by face and name.

Jon felt a little out of place until Dany turned around and pointed first at the dragon and then at Jon.

The young man with the many bells smiled at Jon and dipped his head in greeting.

“This is Haquo,” Dany introduced the young man. “He offered his service to me.”

Jon was flabbergasted and didn’t know what to say.

Dany smiled and whispered into his ear.

“They think me ‘the Stallion that Mounts’ the world. It is part of a mummery I used to get away from the Dosh Khaleen. I shall explain everything to you in good time, but be rest assured that I know these people. They were once part of Drogo’s khalasar.”

Jon had no high opinion of this Drogo, but he also didn’t know much about the Dothraki.

Dany did and he decided to trust her judgement.

“Welcome,” he greeted the young man with a tense smile. He had learned a handful of words in Dothraki, but it was not all too much. “I am Jon.”

The young man called Haquo laughed and so did some of his companions. Even, the little girl that was pulling on Dany’s arm had giggled.

“Your pronunciation needs more work,” Dany whispered. “You said something rather unfitting.”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown and didn’t dare to ask what he had said.

“Then, tell him that I am pleased to meet him.”

Dany’s smile was as bright as a star.

“Gladly.”

…


	51. The King-Beyond-the-Wall

**Ned**

It was close to sunset when Ned woke from his slumber. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and pulled his furred cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off the chill that easily penetrated the thick walls.

His dreams had been disturbing. These days, he often dreamed of Brandon, strangling himself to death as he was trying to reach for the sword that had been mockingly placed before him.

He had also dreamed of his Lord Father, the billowing flames had embracing him like a lover. He had heard his screams and the cackling laughter of the mad man perched on his twisted chair.

Ned hadn’t been there when his brother and father had perished, but he had imagined the scene a thousand of times.

After the rebellion he had brushed away these dark memories, intent to forget about them, even about his wayward sister, but now he found himself thinking more and more about the past and the secrets he had buried there.

Tonight, he had seen Lyanna’s face again. Pale and hollow, after the long birth that had nearly taken her life. She had been half dead when they found her, her bedcloth drenched with blood and scattered with faded winter roses that she had torn from the crown the Prince had gifted her at the tourney of Harrenhall.

Even now, he could smell the heavy scent of the faded flowers and blood in his nose. At times, the memory was so strong that he felt the urge to empty his stomach on the dusty ground of his cell.

It could have been worse, he supposed. The Wildings could have butchered him like they had done with the others, but they hadn’t, because Donal Noye had saved his life by betraying his identity to the attacking enemy.

Ned didn’t know how many men had attacked Castle Black, but he doubted it had been more than a hundred men.

Yet, the attack had completely caught them off guard. They had fought, but the enemy had proved better prepared.

They had come with axes and spears in their hands and their bronze-and-leather shields on their backs. And war cries that had made the untrained men of the Night’s Watch bolt. Some had fought till the end, among them Donal Noye, who had killed three men at once while he had an arrow sticking in his shoulder and feet. In that moment, Ned had been reminded of Robert at the Trident. A demon in human form, jabbing his warmhammer at the enemy like a madman.

In truth, Ned hadn’t been there when Robert had fought Prince Rhaegar beneath the rushing banks of the River Trident, but he had heard the tale numerous times.

Robert had been so proud about his victory, but Ned felt only sadness when he thought of the past.  He had believed that Prince Rhaegar was a madman who had abducted his sister at sword point, but in the end he had only been a lovestruck fool.

A bloody fool, who hadn’t deserved this sad fate. Nor had his wife and smothered children. Ned had been aghast with horror when Robert had smiled at the sight of their butchered corpses and had given his old friend nothing but cold words before he had packed up his men and stormed off to find his sister in Dorne.

There, he had found her in an old watchtower and guarded by the Kingsguard. Ned and his companions had thought her a prisoner and had killed them one after another until only Ser Arthur Dayne had remained. Ser Arthur could have easily killed Ned hadn’t Lord Howland Reed taken him off guard by stabbing him the back.

It had been a pitiful death for a capable man like Ser Arthur Dayne. A death he hadn’t deserved and a death that was weighing down heavily on Ned’s consciousness. Lady Ashara hadn’t been able to forgive him, even after he had knelt beside her slippered  feet and had presented her brother’s sword to her. She had wept, her deep violet eyes full of anger as she had banished him from her solar.

Ned hadn’t protested and had left to seek out his sister and Lord Howland Reed.

They had brought Lyanna hastily to Starfall and while the Maester had been able to save her, she had been unconscious for weeks afterwards, her fever coming and breaking like the tide.

These handful of days as Lyanna was on the brink of dying, had given Ned too much time to think about the future and had spurred him to commit a grave folly.

He had taken his sister’s child, the boy she had born Prince Rhaegar in the last days of the Rebellion, and had sent him away . Jon Snow he had named him and had raised him as his bastard.

 _To protect him_ , Ned had justified his actions. _And to protect my family from Robert’s wrat_ h.

Ned had committed treason against the man he had named his King. A grave sin most would say, but he had given a promise and he had kept it to his best ability.

Of course, Ned couldn’t have refused his sister when she lay dying, but once he knew that she would survive he had been overwhelmed with a great fear.

Knowing Lyanna’s stubborn character she might very well try to stir up another rebellion.  It had been the Mad King who had murdered their brother and father, but it had been his sister’s foolishness that had driven Brandon into the Mad King’s arms.

That she hadn’t shown an inkling of remorse after she had woken, had only strengthen his belief. Ned had asked her to marry Robert for her boy’s sake, but she had spat into his face and called him names he hadn’t believed a well-bread lady like his sisters would be familiar with.

In that moment, Ned had scarcely recognized the girl he had known.

The Lyanna he had known had been stubborn, but had always known her duties. Their Lady Mother had made sure of that and when she had come to visit him in the Eyrie at age ten and two she had appeared to be the most well-mannered of ladies. Robert had been immediately taken with her and gushed about her for moons afterwards. Ned had thought that his friend was finally prepared to leave his wild ways behind him and was ready to settle down.

Naturally, Ned had encouraged Robert to propose to his Lord Father. That idea that Lyanna would be aghast about the match had never entered his mind, but then he had been young and had thought Robert the best man he had ever known.

Now he knew better than that. Robert had never grown up. A hundred years could have passed and he would have still remained the simple-minded boy that had chased every skirt in his vicinity and had loved to hunt the wildest of boars.

Lyanna had been right about that. So much Ned had seen when he had served as Hand of the King.

Robert wouldn’t have been a good husband to her.

Yet, this realization came much too late and now both his sister and her boy were lost to him.

_I should have spoken to father to call off the betrothal. Mayhaps then she would have never run away with the Dragon Prince._

He had failed her just as he had failed Catelyn and his children.

Bran and Rickon, he knew were dead, slain by Theon Greyjoy, a boy he had raised as his son. Sansa might have very well survived the Battle of the Blackwater, but news about the south were scarce these days.

Only Arya and Robb remained to him. And Cat, wherever she was.

At times, Ned wishes he had done what Lyanna’s boy had done. Shed his black cloak and leave this frozen place behind, but now it was too late.

He was a hostage of Wildings and a possibly a burden to his son should he attempt subduing them.

Killing himself, would be the best way to go, but the Wildlings had taken good care in preventing him from doing something foolish like that.

They had removed everything from his cell that could serve as a tool to do harm.

Not that Ned wanted to die. Back then in King’s Landing,  he had brazenly told Lord Varys how he would rather die with honor than lie.

In the end, he had done the contrary. He had lied to save Sansa and Arya.

He had also lied to save the life of Lyanna’s boy.

No, that was not true. Had the boy stayed here at the Wall he would have probably found an early grave like so many of the other young recruits he had seen dying during the attack on Castle Black.

To think that the boy was save in the Night’s Watch was another one of his many miscalculations.

He had believed that Benjen would be able to keep him safe, to finally lift the responsibility from his shoulders…

It had been a selfish wish.

_I should have refused Cat. I should have told her that the boy would say in Winterfell until his dying day. I should have found him a keep and a wife to wed._

_I should…I should… I should…_

It was like a rhyme in his head, slowly driving him to madness.

Not that there was much to do in this stinking cell. The darkness was his only companion and the occasional visit by his captors to bring him supper didn’t offer much reprieve.

It felt almost like a miracle when one of the Wildlings finally opened the door and allowed light to drive away the choking darkness.

“Lord Kneeler,” the man greeted him with a hint of mockery. He was a tall man that lacked ears. He was clean shaven and bald, with grey eyes and a very straight nose. His bronze scaled armor and his weirwood spear made him a appear every inch a fearsome warrior. “Mance wishes to see you.”

Ned had no reason to refuse as he pulled himself to his wobbling feet, balancing himself against the wall.

“I shall gladly attend to ‘his Grace’s’ court,” Ned replied mockingly.

It was too amusing. First he had to kneel before Cersei Lannister’s bastard and now he was about to kneel before an oathbreaker….

“Get him!” he commanded to the two guardsmen.

They grabbed him by the arms and steadied him as he tried to walk. An arrow had hit his leg during the battle and while Mance Ryder had sent men to attend to him, the wound continued to pain him at every step.

The Shield hall  was a long and dusty hall, now filled with Wildlings of all shapes and forms. A Thousand pairs of eyes followed him as he was led through the hall which’s rafters were infested with birds and rats. Before his entrance, laughter and music had dominated the hall, but now there was only silence.

At last, Ned stopped in front of a large table, where a man, presumedly Mance Rayder, was seated with his closest companions.

He didn’t look much like a King..

Mance Rayder was a slender man and of a middling height, but broader in chest than most men. His long brown hair had long turned grey and helped to soften his sharp face and shrewd brown eyes.

Next to him sat a woman of fair hair, a mewling babe at her breast. Beside her sat an even fairer woman, her golden hair kept in a long braid.

Her eyes were grey and in her hand she balanced a knife. She eyed Ned with suspicion.

“Lord Eddard Stark,” Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, greeted Ned with a weary smile. “I never thought a man like you would end up as a brother of the Night’s Watch. How did that happen?”

“I was punished for treason,” Ned replied curtly and met the man’s gaze. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. “And I never thought an oathbreaker would be named King-Beyond-the-Wall. How did that happen?”

If Mance Rayder was insulted by Ned’s words, it didn’t show on his face.

He simply smiled and lifted his cup of ale, pointing at the fair lady at his side.

“This fair lady here saved my life. She is the reason for my oathbreaking. The babe in her arms is my son. A good reason I like to think, Lord Stark.”

 _Love_ , Ned thought. _It was always love that made men forget about their duty._

It softened his dislike for the men in front of him. The men that will most likely murder his family.

“What do you want from me, your Grace?”

Laughter roared in Ned’s ears. Mance’s court seemed mightily amused by the way Ned had addressed their King.

“We do not use such titles among the Free Folk,” Mance Rayder explained and leaned back in his chair. He looked relaxed and comfortable. “I am Mance to most, Lord Stark.”

Ned gave a nod of acceptance.

“Well then, Mance. What do you want from me?”

“Your help,” Mance Rayder explained, his smile vanquished by the serious expression taking hold of his face. “I need your help, Lord Stark.”

Ned was stunned. That was not what he expected to hear.

“Help?” he asked. “Why would you need my help?”

“What did you think my plans are?” Mance asked and chuckled. “To blindly march my people into the North and see them butchered like sheep? No, that was never my intention.”

Ned swallowed hard and nodded his head in understanding.

“What is your intention?”

“To save my people from the enemy to the North…the Others. For your people they are mere tales, but for us they are quite real.”

The old Ned would have laughed, but he had heard enough from the survivors of the Great Ranging to deny the truth.

“Have you seen them?”

“I have and so have many others here,” Mance explained and pointed at an elderly man with a shaggy grey beard. “My friend Tormund Giantsbane lost a son to them.”

“I had to kill my boy. Nothing I am proud of,” the man named Tormund grumbled. He carried himself suddenly very different from the man that had cut apart Ned’s brothers.

He simply looked like a saddened father that had lost his child. That was a feeling Ned could understand.

“And I have lost two sons to the Ironborn,” Ned replied and exhaled deeply. “And I do not wish to lose another one to your people.”

“All fathers love their children,” Mance added approvingly and smiled at the babe nestled in his lady’s arms. “And I am one of them now. I want to see my son grow up, but the Free Folk cannot fight alone. We will have to work together if we want to survive the coming winter. How do the Starks say? Winter is coming.”

“Winter is coming,” Ned acknowledged. “And I shall speak to my son, but I cannot promise you success.

Mance smiled.

“I would have never asked for more, Lord Stark.”

…


	52. The Bear Knight

**Lyanna**

The bloodriders had led them deep into the Dothraki Sea, but they had yet to find Princess Daenerys and Jon. At first, Lyanna had been optimistic, but now after two week turns her hopes were beginning fade.

She didn’t even want to think of the possibility that her son or Rhaegar’s sister had found an early grave somewhere in this sea of yellow grass.

 _Where could the dragons have brought them_ , Lyanna wondered not for the first time. Rhaegar had often spoken about dragons, but he had never seen a real one. All his knowledge had derived from dusty books and  scrolls.

Princess Daenerys also called her dragons ‘her children’.

Would children harm their mother? Lyanna hoped not, but then her own son often looked at her as if he wanted to hurt or punish her, though not in a physical sense.

Even so, she had insisted on accompanying Ser Jorah on his search.

The grim Northman had rejected her help numerous times, but Lyanna had been persistent and soon Ser Barristan grown tired of their quarreling and had commanded Ser Jorah to take Lyanna with him.

Lyanna had been very pleased with herself, but so far she had been quite useless.

It were the Princess’ bloodriders who had done the most work, by leading them along some invisible trail. Their names were Aggo, Jhogo and Rhakaro. Aggo was the oldest of the three with broad shoulders and a serious face. Jhogo was the youngest, of a slender build and graced with a faint shadow of a mustache. He often spoke to Jorah and was quick to laugh. Somewhere in the middle was Jhogo, who sported a black mustache. He also wore more bells than the others. A good dozen, Lyanna had counted, which spoke for his prowess as a warrior at least that is what Ser Jorah had explained to her.

Said warrior was often watching her whenever she wasn’t looking.

 _Maybe he thinks it odd that I am riding with them_ , Lyanna thought and touched the dagger fastened at her belt. It wouldn’t be much use against such a hulk of a warrior, but she might be able to fight him off if he tried something stupid.

Well, Ser Jorah was also there. And while the grim Northman was not particularly courteous towards her, he doubted he would leave her to die.

 _Rhaegar’s sister exiled him_ , she recalled what Jon had told her. _And he probably hopes to win back her trust…_

“It is getting dark. We should prepare to make camp.” Jorah’s gruff voice rang in her ears and caused to turn her head. The landscape was covered with swaying grass of green and yellow, a gentle breeze brushing over her cheeks. Far off in the distance she noticed a silver stream and a cliffy landscape of mountains with red peaks.

Lyanna knew little about these never-ending grasslands lands and thus she decided not to question Ser Jorah’s judgements.

“Where?” Lyanna asked and swept her gaze over her surroundings. Here the grass stood not as tall as in other places and there were even a handful of trees that provided shade against the burning sun.  “Here?”

“No,” Jorah said and straightened himself in his saddle, pointing in the distance. “Not far from here we should be able to find a water place.”

Lyanna was relieved to hear that and kicked her feet into the sides of her horse, spurring it to a faster pace. “Then let’s go.”

They followed a down-trodden path until they reached a small water place, nothing more than a puddle in a sea of dust, yet it was enough to satisfy their need for water.

Lyanna spent some time watering her horse and offered her help to the bloodriders, but when they gave her strange looks she returned to Ser Jorah, who had taken shelter beneath one of the shady trees. One was crooked, with a pale bark and dark leaves.

Sweat was pouring down his temples and his bare head was shiny and sun-burned. Like her he was not used to the heat of Essos, but then he was also garbed in proper armor while Lyanna had put on a simple tunic, breeches and her riding boots.

“Here,” Lyanna offered her waterskin to Ser Jorah. “The water is a bit stale, but better than nothing.”

“I prefer this,” he replied glumly and took a gulp from his waterskin, that was filled with watered wine. “But your offer is welcome, my Lady.”

Lyanna nodded her head in understanding and sat down opposite of him, her legs crossed. She searched the landscape, hoping to see a sign of Ghost. The wolf had followed after them from Meereen, but had left them two days ago, probably to hunt or as Lyanna hoped to find Jon.

 “How long until we will find them?”

“I don’t know,” Jorah said and brushed the sweat from his brow. “Let’s hope the wolf finds them.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but to agree. “If anyone can find them it is Ghost.”

Jorah gave her a skeptical look. “You are quite convinced about the beasts’ abilities, my Lady.”

“And why not?” Lyanna asked with amusement. “Direwolves are much smarter than normal animals. My ancestors must have had a reason to keep them as their pets.”

“I hope so,” Jorah said and seized her up with his sharp grey eyes.

Lyanna chuckled.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Ser Jorah averted his gaze and sighed, putting his waterskin away.

“No.”

“Then why were you staring at me?”

“The boy looks like you. I doubted it at first, but no more. You are Lady Lyanna Stark and the boy is your son.”

Lyanna furrowed her bows and leaned back to balance herself on her hands.

“I can assured you…I am Lady Lyanna Stark and Jon is Prince Rhaegar’s son. Whether the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms will regard him as trueborn or as a bastard is open for debate, but he is your Queen’s nephew.”

“I accept that now,” Ser Jorah replied and inclined his head to look at her again. “And the other boy? This Aegon?”

Lyanna shouldn’t be surprised by his doubts and was momentarily at a loss of words.

“Lord Connington wouldn’t support a pretender.”

“Lord Connington could have been fooled,” Ser Jorah countered. “It would not be hard to find a boy with silver hair and purple eyes in Lys. How old was he when you first saw him?”

Lyanna didn’t like the sound of that, but gave Ser Jorah the answer he desired.

“Five.”

“Quiet old,” Jorah countered. “And for how long has this Jon Connington known the boy?”

Lyanna wished her answer was different.

“Not much longer than me, but I do not understand…” she trailed off.

“You do understand,” Ser Jorah insisted. “You don’t strike me as a foolish person, my Lady. Something is wrong here. Tell me, how did the boy survive?”

Lyanna swallowed hard and recounted what Lord Connington had told her.

“Lord Varys supposedly exchanged him for another babe and smuggled him out of the city.”

“Quite convenient, isn’t it?” Jorah muttered to himself and pondered her words, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Then, he spoke again.

“I ask you as a mother, my Lady,” Ser Jorah began, his grey eyes narrowed as he looked directly at Lyanna. “Wouldn’t a mother save both her children? If there was really a chance to get her children out of King’s Landing, why didn’t Princess Elia do the same for her daughter?”

Ser Jorah’s question made her uncomfortable, but he was not wrong. Why would Elia Martell only save her son? Some might say that a Prince is simply more worth than a Princess, but then Princess Elia had hailed from Dorne, a place where women could inherit before their younger brothers.

There was only one possible explanation that came to Lyanna’s mind.

“Princess Rhaenys was nearly three. It is much easier to exchange a babe than a toddler.”

“True,” Jorah granted her. “But there are more discrepancies, my Lady. Ser Barristan told me that Prince Quentyn Martell hadn’t been aware of the boy’s existence. Why wouldn’t Lord Varys at least contact the boy’s family? I do not think Doran Martell would sell out his potential nephew to King Robert. He would have guarded this secret until his dying day. The only possible explanation I have is that this Lord Varys and this Magister Illyrio wanted to wait for the right moment.”

“So much is clear,” Lyanna agreed. “But I think I can explain that. Even Lord Connington believed that Aegon would need the support of his kin and a most preferably a marriage to Princess Daenerys to cement his claim. That is why we came to Meereen. Well, that failed. I doubt the Princess will be prepared to wed Aegon.”

“She is fucking your son,” Jorah grumbled, his voice laced with obvious displeasure. “I suppose it is in their blood.”

“What is done is done,” Lyanna added calmly. “I do not think it would be wise to try breaking them apart. The Princess seems quite stubborn and my son already hates me enough. I have caused him enough pain. Yet, I do not think we shouldn’t count out Aegon. He does have the Golden Company and I hope you won’t hate me for this, but can you blame me for wishing that the boy is truly Elia Martell’s son, Ser Jorah? I caused her death and I had hoped I could redeem myself somewhat by helping my son to the throne.”

Ser Jorah frowned.

“You would rather see that boy on the throne than your own son?”

Lyanna averted her gaze. The bloodriders were playing a game of dices, their laughter ringing loud in her ears.

It was a brief distraction, but Ser Jorah. demanded her attention.

“I asked you a question, my Lady?”

“I don’t care about the bloody throne. I never did. I want Jon to be happy, but you have to understand…I raised that other boy. I love him as if he is my own. I do not want to see him harmed. That is why I hope we can work together, despite Aegon’s foolishness, which had its cause in his justified anger for me.”

The expression on Jorah’s face told her that he didn’t agree with her idea.

“I do not care for the boy’s reasoning. He tried to steal one of the dragons. If had a say I would have thrown him into the darkest dungeon and be done with it. I also think we should not make any agreements with him until we can be sure about his legitimacy. The only person who can answer this question is Illyrio Mopatis, the fat cunt that fooled Prince Viserys into selling his sister to the Dothraki.”

“First we need to find them,” Lyanna told him and went to get her cloak, fastening the garment around her shoulders, before returning to Ser Jorah’s side.

She sat down, leaned against the tree and crossed her legs.

Then, she watched Ser Jorah as he sharpened  his blade, a fine sword made of castle-forged steel. He reminded her of her father and how he had always cleaned Ice seated beneath the weirwood tree in the godswood…

The world around her was still blurred in darkness when she was woken by the sound of horse hooves.

Lyanna rubbed her eyes and turned into the direction of the sound, finding Aggo, who must have returned from his watch. Every night, one of the bloodriders was searching the landscape for potential enemies.

“Aggo found your boy and the boy’s beast,” Ser Jorah explained to her when she joined them. “It seems they are travelling in company of a horde of Dothraki.”

Lyanna’s sighed in relief and searched Aggo’s face. “Ask him if he spoke with my son.”

Jorah asked him.

“Aye, he spoke to him,” Jorah explained to her as he was climbing back in his saddle. “Let us not wait any longer.”

Lyanna nodded her head and swung herself into her saddle, her heart filled with hope.

…


	53. Tales of Old

**Arya**

The world around her was dying. In the matter of a week the trees had grown bare and the grass had turned yellow and dry like old parchment. The sun was also hiding away behind thick clouds scuttling over the distant sky like a horde of lost ships.

_Winter is coming_ , Arya knew and rubbed her shoulders. She was wearing a cloak, but one made for southron people and not the thick ones made of bear pelt she used to wear in Winterfell.

_I have grown soft_ , she thought and swept her gaze over the long winding road full of holes and puddles.

Rain had been their constant companion. Sometimes, it drizzled and sometimes it poured, but the thick forests lining the road had provided them with sufficient protection against the worst of it. Only one of their guardsmen had caught a harmless cold.

“It is going to rain again,” the Hound grumbled. “I hate he bloody rain.”

“Be at peace my friend,” the Elder Brother said in amusement. “The Inn at the Crossroads is not far.”

The Stranger, who was riding not far behind the Hound, remained silent as ever, the crow perched atop his shoulder his constant companion.

He scared her, but the Hound’s presence so close to her mother scared her even more and was the reason she always slept with one eye open, her hand resting on Needle’s slender hilt.

She had expected him to do something horrid, but so far he kept away from the others, minding his own business.

Arya still wanted him gone. She couldn’t bear to look at his ugly face or his bloody sword.

All she could think was that this blade had cut her friend apart.

_He is only a stupid butcher boy_ , Sansa had said after Arya had wept over her friend’s death. Arya would have put dung into her sister’s bed hadn’t she been also affected by the Queen’s cruelty.

“He will pay for what he did to you,” Arya muttered to herself and galloped up the hill.

Her Lady Mother had been equally tongue-tied since they had left the Quiet Isle, the hood of her cloak always concealing her face.

At first, Arya had thought it was because of the icy wind, but now she knew why. Her Lady mother was afraid that someone might recognize her.

_A highborn lady would make a fine hostage_ , she had heard her say to Ser Ryger not long ago. _And the Tully coloring is well-known in these lands._

It was the only time in her life that she had recognized how fortuned she was to be born with plain brown hair and her horrid horseface.

It made her wonder what her betrothed would think of her. Sansa and Jeyne Poole had always called her Arya Horseface and many other names Arya had forgotten.

Only her Lord Father had called her ‘pretty’ and likened her to her Aunt Lyanna, but then he might have just wanted to comfort her.

Not that Arya cared. She didn’t want to disappoint Robb, but she would happy if this Harry something would think her too ugly to be his bride.

She knew what a silly thought that was, for men did not wed a woman for love or even for beauty, but for her inheritance or to build alliances. Only someone as silly as Sansa could believe that someone as rotten as Joff had wanted to wed her out of love.

_Father grew up in the Eyrie and made many friends there. Mayhaps this Harry isn’t so bad._

“Arya,” her Lady Mother’s soft voice caused her to lift her head. “Put up your hood.”

Arya frowned.

“Why?”

“The Inn at the Crossroads is not far,” her Lady Mother explained and pointed ahead. “But I fear it is going to rain again.”

Arya huffed and pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. She didn’t want to quarrel with her Lady Mother.

The road went on a while longer. Passing a familiar patch of wood, memories of her first travel south came back to her.

Not long, after a familiar village came in sight.

It consisted of nothing more than a small marketplace and a village with half a hundred white houses and a small sept.

The Inn at the Crossroads stood three stories tall with turrets and chimneys made of white stone. Its south wings were built upon pilings rising over a bed of weeds.

A throng of people was crowding the courtyard before the stables, dirty boys running back and fro, attending to the newcomer’s horses.

Ser Ryger was quick to put his men to work, even the Hound, who grumbled a rude answer at the old knight. The Elder Brother chided him gently and off their went again, the Stranger following after them like a dog led by an invisible leash.

Arya wasn’t afforded the pleasure of solitude and was quickly ushered inside by her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger.

The smell of ale and smoke filled her nose as they entered the long and drafty common room. There were wooden kegs at one end and a fireplace at the other. Children rushed back and forth, offering ale and wine to the guests and fresh pies and cakes.

The smell alone was enough to make Arya’s stomach growl.

Not long after, a girl appeared. She was thin, dark-haired and wore a green dress.

She was very young, but there was a hardness to her that made her look older than her years.

“I am Jeyne Heddle, my Lady,” she greeted and dipped her head. She had spoken very proper. There were no ‘M’Lords’ or ‘M’Ladies’ in her greeting. “How can I serve?”

“You are Marsha’s granddaughter, are you not?” her Lady Mother asked, her voice laced with surprise.

“My grandmother is dead,” the girl replied pensively. “She was strung up at the command of Lord Tywin Lannister, curse his rotten soul. She left everything to me.”

“It pains me to hear that,” her Lady Mother replied in a sad voice. “We only ask for a room for the night and a warm meal for our entourage.”

Then, she pulled a bag of coins out of her vest and showed it to the girl.

“Will that be enough?”

The girl’s serious face lightened up with surprise.

“Much too much.”

“Not too much, if you can give us a chamber far from the other guests. I do not want anyone to ask questions about our presence here.”

The girl gave her and understanding look.

“I understand, my Lady. My lips are sealed, but that is still too much coin. Our rooms are poor. The gods would curse me to accept so much.”

Arya sighed. Was the girl stupid or just proud?

“I say take the coin, sister!” piped a younger girl, who had suddenly poked her head over the wooden  table. “Then, we will be able to eat something other than stale broth. Gendry big, he needs proper food or he is going to starve.”

“Willow!” Jeyne Heddle snapped angrily and gave the girl a gentle slap over the head. “These are not common folk. You will apologize at once or you will go to bed without supper!”

“It is fine,” her Lady Mother said in an appeasing tone. “I am not insulted.”

Arya knew she should have nodded her head in agreement, but her gaze was still fixed on the girl named Willow.

_Gendry_ , the girl had said. _Could that stupid fool have survived after all?_

“Gendry is here?”

Willow looked surprised.

“You know him?”

“He travelled with me. He is a bastard like my brother Jon. He has brown hair and  blue eyes and he always makes a stupid face when he thinks too hard.”

Arya had spoken so quickly, she had scarcely been able to breath. She must have also spoken rather loudly, for Jeyne Heddle, her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger were staring back at her with confusion.

“Gendry was my friend,” Arya continued to explain. “He protected me and Hot Pie and Lommy. He is a smith…he can makes sword and other useful things. He is a bastard, but he is a good one, like Jon.”

Her Lady Mother sighed deeply and shifted her attention to Willow and Jeyne.

“Do you know this Gendry, my Lady?”

Jeyne Heddle blushed and fumbled with the dirty hem of her dress. She looked almost like Sansa with that stupid smile curling on her lips.

“I know him, but we don’t call him Gendry. He is now Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill. Lord Beric, a friend of ours, knighted him and tasked him to protect me and the other orphans. He wields his hammer better than a sword, but he is still a true knight.”

“A bastard knight, then?” Ser Ryger asked, his voice laced with amusement. “I don not think it is appropriate for my Lady to…,” he began, but her Lady Mother cut him off.

“Is there a chance that this Ser Gendry will join us for supper?” her Lady Mother asked Jeyne Heddle.

“For sure,” the girl replied in obvious confusion. “He comes once his work in the smithy is done. I shall see that he attends to you, my Lady. Shall I show you the way to the rooms?”

“Please,” her Lady Mother replied and patted Arya’s arm as Jeyne Heddle was leading the way up the steps.  Arya followed wordlessly, still shocked what her Lady Mother had done just done.

Their chamber was dirty and the bed poor, but it was better than to sleep on the hard ground. Yet, the worst was the bath her Lady Mother forced upon her.

The water was lukewarm, quickly heated over the cookfire, but the soap made her skin prickle.

Then she was given fresh clothes, a simple grey dress and slippers..

“Can’t have you run about like a peasant,” her Lady Mother said sadly and placed a kiss on her wet brown hair. “Tell me, daughter. Does this boy know your real name?”

“Only Gendry knew, but he won’t tell anyone. He can be stupid, but he wouldn’t be that stupid. And he is quite loyal too.”

The expression on her Lady Mother’s face was telling.

It reminded her of the looks she used to give Jon, though less cold.

“Very well,” her Lady Mother said at last and pushed the door open. “Let’s join the others. Supper should be ready. You must be hungry.”

Arya was indeed hungry, but she was more anxious to see her friend. She needed to know what had happened to Hot Pie and Lommy, who had run away with Gendry, because they didn’t want to join the Night’s Watch.

The common hall was sparsely filled, among them more children than adults. They looked starved and some were armed with knives and axes.

Ser Ryger’s knights were seated around a wooden table, each of them having a tankard close at hand. The Hound sat on a lonely stool beside the hearth, his blade bare across his lap, the flames from the hearth making it gleam like the sun.

The Stranger sat in the shadows, his pale otherworldly face hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, his dark eyes watching the children. One of them was a long-legged girl that was playing a song on her lute. It was a familiar tune, but the girl’s play was lacking.

The Elder Brother sat with them, joking and talking to the children with animated gestures.

He looked like he was one of them, though two heads taller.

The only one who reached to the same height was a boy with a familiar face.

It was Gendry, but his hair was shorter and he had grown a beard.

Yet, he still carried the same dumb look and his blue eyes grew inclinedly wide when he saw her. “Arry! It’s really you! I thought Jeyne was trying to fool me!”

The boys and girls seated around him roared with laughter.

He stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over his tankard as he went. He stopped in front of her, his hands dirty and greasy as he touched her clean dress.

He looked as if he wanted to pick her up and embrace her, but her Lady Mother’s presence stopped him.

“Will you introduce us?” her Lady Mother asked stiffly, her blue eyes of summer seizing up Gendry.

“This is Gendry,” was all that Arya managed to say. “And this is my Lady Mother.”

“Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill, my Lady,” Gendry added awkwardly and lowered his head. “I do not know how to conduct myself in front of highborn ladies.”

“It is fine,” Her Lady Mother assured him and leaned over Arya’s shoulder, her eyes searching Gendry’s face. “But I wish that my daughter’s name and identity remains unknown. Can you do that for me, Ser Gendry?”

Gendry blushed. “Of course!”

A ghost of a smile tugged on her Lady Mother’s lips as she waved her hand at their table. “You may sit with us and tell us about your adventures. My daughter spoke much about you.”

Gendry paled.

“I rather think not…,” he said and was about to bolt, but was caught by the Elder Brother.

“Not so fast, lad,” he said and took in Gendry’s appearance. “So, you are a knight? Where is your weapon and your shield? Do you even have a sigil?”

Gendry blushed.

“I have a warhammer.”

The Elder Brother nodded his head. “But a knight needs a sigil. It happens that I am rather gifted in the art of painting. What kind of a sigil do you have in mind, my boy?”

“A hammer should be on it and a hill,” he stuttered helplessly. “That would fit my name.”

The Elder Brother laughed and ruffled his hair.

“That should be no problem. Well, you will need to get a proper shield too.”

“I have never fought with a shield, Ser,” Gendry replied in an almost apologizing tone. “My hammer is all I know.”

“I will show you,” the Elder Brother assured Gendry and patted his shoulder. “And now go and sit down.”

Gendry swallowed hard and gave a hesitant nod. “Very well.”

They sat together, but pressed between her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger, who was eying Gendry like a hawke its prey.

Ser Ryger was even worse than Sansa.

_Does he think Gendry is going to steal may maidenhead while my mother is eating next to him?_

_Bastards might be wicked, but not that stupid._

“So, you travelled with my daughter?” her Lady Mother asked in a tone that bordered on suspicion. “How come you ended up here?”

“I ran away, my Lady,” Gendry admitted, his gaze fixed on the table. “I, Hot Pie and Lommy. Lommy is now a carrier boy for the Brotherhood without Banners and Hot Pie works in the kitchens. He might join us later if he ever gets away from his beloved pies.”

Arya covered her mouth, holding back the laughter threatening to spill from her lips.

“Hot Pie made these,” Jeyne Heddle added with a tense smile and put a handful of pies on the table. They were soaked in honey and smelled delicious. “I hope you like them. I used up all the honey I had left.”

Arya took a bite and felt as if the doors of heaven had opened before her.

“Hot Pie will be pleased,” Jeyne Heddle remarked gently and brushed her hand over Gendry’s shoulder in a way that made Arya uncomfortable.

That Gendry smiled like a fool, made it only worse.

“Thank him on my behalf.”

They were eating while her Lady Mother and Ser Ryger were peppering Gendry with more questions. Arya helped him now and then, but he looked miserable.

 This would have probably continued, hadn’t Jeyne Heddle returned to gather the children around her like a mother hen her little fledglings.

She gave them each a kiss, but one of them, a bony boy with a tuft of blond hair and freckles, was not satisfied with a goodnight kiss and demanded a story.

“My Momma always told me a story,” he said with weepy green eyes. “Do you know one?”

Jeyne Heddle gave him a helpless look. “I fear not, little one.”

“I know one,” Willow said and ruffled the boy’s hair. “How about the burning of Harrenhall?”

The boy looked unhappy. “I know that one.”

“Everyone knows that one,” added a rosy-cheeked girl. “Do you know no other stories? I want one about knights and ladies?”

“I want a scary one,” another boy demanded. He was tall and had a broken nose. “With dragons and giants.”

“I know one,” the rattling voice of the Stranger interrupted them. “I know a scary story.”

All heads turned to look at him.

“What is it about?” the boy with the broken nose asked, his voice laced with childish curiosity.

The Stranger lowered his hood, baring his pale face to the light. His dark eyes gleamed, two black holes in an ashen face that might have once been quite comely.

“About the Others and the Children of the Forest.”

“I already know that one,” Arya scoffed. “And it isn’t that scary. Not even my little brother was afraid when he heard it.”

The Stranger’s face remained frozen as he turned his head to look at Arya.

“This tale is very old. It is the tale about the Great Other.”

“The Great Other?” Gendry asked and furrowed his brows. “I have heard of that one. Thoros spoke about him in passing…he is some sort evil lord or god…the enemy of the god of light. But what does he have to do with the Children of the Forest?”

A glimmer of emotion kindled in the Stranger’s dark eyes.

“Let me tell the story.”

“Aye, shut up, Gendry! We want to hear the story! Please tell us more!” The children demanded in unison and gathered around the Stranger as if he was some benevolent minstrel and not an odd man who spoke to crows.

A moment of silence passed, before the Stranger spoke, his voice changing to a different, almost human voice.

“During the Dawn Age the children thrived in these lands. Nature was their mother and earth their father. They lived under the protection of the great weirwoods that were said to work wonderous magic. They could enter skin of animals and composed songs so beautiful that men would weep. That was until the First Men came, who were so very different from them. Like moon and sun, like sky and earth, like ice and fire, these two sides could not coexist without conflict. And so it happened. It started with the harvesting of the rainwood trees, but that was only the beginning. Soon the First Men became weary of this child-like folk that wished to command them. Fearful and envious of their magic, they burned down their heart trees and started to slaughter them one after another. For thousands of years these two races fought for dominance. In a futile attempt the Children used the hammer of the waters to shatter the Arm of Dorne with the Breaking, creating the Broken Arm and the Stepstones in hopes to ward of these foreign men pouring into their lands like a pestilence. Yet, it was no use, for the First Men had already taken root and the Children were not able to overcome their weapons of bronze and fire. The Crow King, the powerful greenseer ruling over the Children, realized that the only way forward was to find a way to exist peacefully with the First Men. What followed was the forging of the First Pact, in which the Children granted the open lands to men and the forests to the Children. This Pact lasted for four thousand years, but as always, peace is never lasting, especially not in the hearts of humans. They are not like the Children, for their lifespan is short and they always crave for more, but by then it was already too late. The Children had committed a grave mistake…,” the Stranger trailed off, allowing a moment of silence, like Nan would do whenever she wanted build suspense.

“What grave mistake?” asked one of the children. “What did they do?”

“They started breeding with the First Men, bringing forth odd mongrels, gifted with the greensight and immune to the poison of the bronze weapons of the First Men. They say that the Crow King’s daughter wed one of the many Kings of the First Men beneath one of the Great Weirwoods and conceived a child...a Prince…the Great Other.”

“Why do they call him Great Other?” the Hound asked, his voice laced with annoyance. “Sounds very plain to me.”

“Others…outsiders…half-breed,” these were the names given to them by the Children and the First Men, for as time passed it became evident that they could never exist in both worlds. Some of these half-breeds joined the Children and others remained with the First Men, but there were those who did not choose and lived among themselves. They were said to have build their own kingdom far off in the North. Their leader, he was the cursed child I spoke about. He was scorned by the First Men and the Children alike. And his own folk worshipped him like a god.”

“Why?” Arya asked. “What made him so different from the others?”

“The greensight was strong in him,” the Stranger explained. “And you know what they say about power. It breeds jealousy and fear. The Crow King, his grandfather and the wisest of the greenseers, feared him the most. He mistrusted this half-breed gifted with the greensight and filled with human ambitions.”

“And that bit them in the ass, didn’t it?” Ser Ryger asked. “What a man sows always comes back to him.”

“Yes,” the Stranger said. “The Children and the First Men harvested what they sowed, but there was a reason for their woe. The Others were once men of flesh and blood, but something corrupted them, but let me first tell you about the breaking of the First Pact.”

“As it came, the peace didn’t last forever, for the First Men started another war. The songs speak of the burning of one of the Great Trees by the hand of a First Men King who wanted to take revenge for some petty punishment the Children dealt him for hunting a stag. This time, the First Men didn’t stop their butchery and the Children grew desperate. How could they hope to prevail against the First Men, with their poisoned weapons forged in fire? The Great Other saw their desperation and saw an opportunity. He promised them help in the form of dark sorcery long forgotten. Sorcery that hailed from the lands beyond the Narrow Sea, magic of ice, blood and earth.”

“What sorcery? Shadow magic?” Gendry asked, his voice laced with childish wonder.

“Spells of ice,” the Stranger explained. “Magic to command the dead, to preserve one’s life forever, brought forth by an even sinister man.”

“Who?” one of the girls asked fearfully.

“A name not well known in Westeros. The Bloodstone Emperor, another tale. What you must now is this: the Great Other was a well-travelled man, who spend hundreds of years in foreign lands, learning and studying the dark arts. The children were desperate and thus they employed his help. A grave mistake.”

“Why? He didn’t defeat the First Men, didn’t he?” Another boy asked excitedly.

“No, he did not defeat the First Men,” the Stranger answered in a solemn and soft voice. “But he was not without success. He drove them back and those that lingered he hunted down one after another. They say he drank their blood, weaving more spells from it, one more terrible than the next. Soon, not only men were bound to his will, but other creatures. Giants, spiders, wolves, horses and birds, everything living creature that came his way easily bent to his will like metal to the heat of a forge. Yet, he did not receive the recognition he had hoped for…,” the Stranger trailed off.

Silence reigned for a moment, only the hushed whispers of the children and the cackling of the flames ringing in Arya’s ears.

Finally, the Stranger continued.

“Victorious and drenched in the lifeblood of his enemies he returned and came before the Crow King, his grandfather. Some admired him for his power, but most feared him. The Crow King most of all, who had long realized what a danger this half-breed Prince posed. He saw the corruption in his heart, tainted by the sorcery he had used. Even so he had allowed him to speak, for he could not deny that this half-breed Prince had done him a grand favour ‘I have found the magic to make myself long-lived like my mother’s folk. I have defended your people against our mortal enemies! I have slaughtered them in the thousands and fed upon their blood! They shall no longer trouble us once I have completed my task! But this last song shall not be woven until you heard my demands!’. The Crow King knew about the ambitions simmering deep in his grandson’s heart, for he was well-learned in the gift, but even so he allowed him to speak, for among the Children it was a grave sin to not hear the mind of man that had done good service. “Give your demands’ the Crow King had asked in a heavy voice and the half-breed Prince had not hesitated, for this ambition had long been burning in his heart. ‘I ask for you to name me your heir. I wish for the antlered crown and your black cloak and your pale seat carved of the finest weirwood. I am of your blood and I am well-learned in the Gift: Under my protection, our people shall prosper and thrive!’. And perhaps the half-breed Prince had been right, for he had accomplished what his half-brothers hadn’t been able to do, but that could not sway the Children. Their old ways were well-ingrained in their hearts. A half-breed could not be their King and wear the antlered crown and the black cloak or sit on the weirwood chair. The Crow King knew this and refused his demands.”

“But the Great Other didn’t accept that, did he?” the Hound asked. “Ambitious men like that do not bend easily, not even to Kings.”

“No,” the Stranger confirmed. ”As expected, he did not accept the Crow King’s blatant refusal, for his heart had long been burned up by his own ambitions, leaving nothing but ash. Not long after,  He slew the Crow King, donned his antlered crown, his black cloak and drank his blood. Those who shunned him called him ‘the Cursed One’ and those few who admired him called him the ‘Great Other’. The rest of the tale is known to you.”

“The Long Night came and shrouded the world in darkness until the Others were defeated in the Battle of the Dawn, made possible by the First Hero who had forged an allegiance between men and the Children of the Forest,” Arya replied in a frustrated tone. She had hoped to hear more. “You seem to know an awfully lot. Or perhaps you embellished this tale to make it scarier?”

The Stranger angled his head, his dark eyes boring into her.

“I did not, child,” he said. “The boy asked for a scary tale and I gave one. That is all.”

“A grim tale for sure,” her Lady Mother added tensely and pulled on Arya’s shoulder. “But now I think it is time we rest.”

Arya knew there was no use to quarrel with her Lady Mother and accepted her command. That she was exhausted made it all too easier, though the strange tale the Stranger had given her occupied her mind for a long time…

It was the thunder of hoofbeats that roused her from her uneasy sleep.

Fearful, she had quickly slipped out of the bed and had stormed to the open windows.

“Gods, what is happening?” she heard her Lady Mother’s fearful voice, but Arya’s attention was fixed on the riders below. They carried no banners, but they were well-armed with axes, swords and bows.

It was the cloak of the leader that betrayed their identity. He was a handsome man, seated on a black courser, a dirty satin cloak decorated with stars swishing behind him and a forked purple lightning bolt embellished on his breastplate.

Lord Beric Dondarrion and his band of outlaws had come.

…


	54. Marwyn the Mage

**Sam**

Sam watched the sky of Braavos change to a silvery grey, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. A thick mist had hung over the city all day, but now, so close to sunset, the sky had cleared again.

It was much pleasant here in Braavos compared to the Wall, but Sam knew that the Free Cities were supposed to be much warmer even at the beginning of winter.

 _This will the longest winter in a thousand years_ , he recalled what Maester Aemon had told him.

The thought made him shudder. He couldn’t imagine a winter lasting for so long. He couldn’t even imagine constant darkness.

“They promised to be back before sunset,” Sam complained to Gilly, who sat huddled next to the hearth, her hair tangled and her babe at her breast. “Grenn must have gotten distracted and Pyp, he is never up to anything good.”

Gilly chuckled. “You worry too much, Sam.”

“It is just…I am dying from hunger,” Sam couldn’t help but to complain. His last meal had been around midday and

Grenn had promised them wine and cakes.

“We could buy some supper below,” Gilly offered, but Sam gave her a sharp look.

“We cannot afford that,” he explained and shifted his attention to Maester Aemon, who was covered with two layers of pelt.  The travel had been hard on him, but now a hint of color was finally returning to his face.

A smile crossed over his lips when Sam drew closer.

“What is it, Samwell?” he asked, his trembling hand holding unto the handle of his chair. “Are you upset?”

Sam marveled at his ability to read his emotional state.

“How did you know, Maester?”

“Your walk. You sound like giant when you are angry. Have Grenn and Pyp returned?”

“Not yet,” Sam replied and sat down on the stool before the hearth, rubbing his hands. “I am sure the two are up to no good.”

“Probably,” the old man chuckled. “That is a common thing among young men, though I would hope to spread some tales about the valor of the Night’s Watch as they go about their business.”

Sam nodded his head and closed his eyes as he leaned against the stone wall. Soon, his eyes grew heavy, Gilly’s singing voice lulling him into a soft sleep.

It was the sudden sound of a cracking door that woke him from his slumber and nearly caused him to kiss the ground. He still hit his head and squeaked in pain, which caused Maester Aemon and Gilly to turn their heads to look at him.

“I apologize, Sam,” Pyp replied in surprise and held the door open for Grenn, who carried all kinds of things. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sam smiled at his friends and hopped to his feet.

“It is no bother,” he stuttered. “And you brought food! Marvelous!”

“Pyp got lost when he ran after a whore,” Grenn grumbled and sat down before the hearth. “Eventually, I found him and we got the promised food. Show Sam what you got. He looks half starving.”

Sam blushed. “It is not that bad.”

“You have been complaining all the time,” Gilly added amusedly and helped Pyp unpack the food.

Not long after, they were having a plain supper. They had apples, wine, cheese and bread. None of it really suited Sam’s taste. The apples tasted stale, the cheese smelled, the wine was too bitter and the bread tasted strange, though it was soft enough to be consumed by Maester Aemon.

A hollow rumbling echoed off the roofs of Braavos, when they had finished their meal.

Sam felt about going to sleep, but the sudden knock at the door stopped him.

“Who could that be?” Grenn asked.

“Maybe the Mistress,” Pyp added and took a gulp from the flagon of wine. “What was her name again? Merry?”

“Forgot,” Grenn grumbled and rose to his feet, to open the door. “Let’s see.”

Blurred lights from outside filtered into the room, casting the man in shadows.

“Who are you?” Grenn asked as Sam joined him, though he kept a safe distance in fear the man could mean harm.

 _I am still a craven_ , he thought, his heart racing. _Sam the coward they should have called me._

“I am Marwyn,” the man introduced himself as if that explained everything.  “I think I am being expected?”

The man named Marwyn looked rather odd, though his clothing hidden beneath his black travelling cloak, gave some indication of his occupation. He wore a grey robe and a chain of many metals around his bull’s neck. Save for that, he looked more like a thug. His head was too big for his body and the way it thrust forward from his shoulders, together with that slab of jaw, made him look as if he were about to tear off one’s head. Though short and squat, he was heavy in the chest and shoulders, with a round, rock-hard ale belly straining the laces of his leather jerkin. Bristly white hair stuck from his ears and nostrils like weed. He also had the biggest hands Sam had ever seen.

“Expected?” Sam asked in confusion. “Expected by whom?”

“By me,” Maester Aemon’s croaking voice echoed through the room. “It is good to see you, old friend.”

“Aemon Targaryen,” the man named Marwyn answered and laughed, but didn’t step inside at once. “I never thought to see you again.”

“Allow him inside, boys,” Aemon demanded in a gentle tone.

Sam and Grenn moved out of the way and allowed the man entrance. They were stunned when they noticed his companion.

It was a slender boy with a soft smile. His skin was the color of teak and his dark hair curled into a thousand small ringlets. He too wore a cloak and beneath breeches and a snug dark brigandine with iron studs.

“I am Alleras,” the boy introduced himself. “Well met.”

“I am Sam,” he replied and pointed at Pyp and Grenn. “And these are my friends Pyp and Grenn,” he continued and waved his hand at last at Gilly. “And this is Gilly and her baby. Maester Aemon seems to know you.”

“Aye, we know each other,” Marwyn chuckled as he shrugged off his wet cloak.  “How long has it been since we have last seen each other, Aemon?”

“Too long,” Aemon replied in a heavy voice. “Too long.”

“I was sad when I heard about the misfortune that befell your family,” Marwyn added and leaned down to touch Aemon’s hand. “Especially, the fate of Prince Rhaegar. He was a cynic and far too curious for his own good, but he had a sharp mind. I never imagined he could become as mad as his father and steal a maid from her bed to rape her.”

“He didn’t,” Aemon replied without hesitation, his voice suddenly hard and distant. “It seems that was a lie, one of many.”

Marywn seemed surprised, but let the matter rest, his gaze flickering to Sam.

“Is that Randyll Tarly’s boy?”

“That is him,” Aemon confirmed and touched Marwyn’s arm. “Did you bring your things?”

Marwyn nodded his head and waved his hand at Alleras, who carried a bag made of thick fur slung around his shoulder.

The boy was quick to unpack a good number of bound parchments and at last a dark candle, which he placed atop the wooden table where they had had their supper not long ago.

“I brought everything I could find…the candle as well, though one of the smaller ones.”

“Wonderful,” Aemon said. “Sadly, I can’t see it.”

Sam took in the candle. There was something queer about it.

The candle was unpleasantly bright and the flame did not flicker. The light did something strange to the colors too. Whites were bright as fresh-fallen snow, yellow shone like gold, reds turned to flame, but the shadows were so black, they looked like holes. The candle itself was as slender as a small spear and made of a glittering black material. It looked like the daggers they had found in the wilderness near the Fist of the First Men. There was also a horn, Sam had kept as a token.

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“Obsidian,” Alleras added cheekily as he looked over to Marwyn. “Or Dragonglass, isn’t that so, Archmaester?”

“Archmaester,” Sam stuttered. “You are an Archmaester?”

“Why not?” Marwyn asked and wrinkled his beetled brows. “Is there a specific way an Archmaester ought to look like? Aemon said you are a smart one, but you don’t sound like it.”

“Samwell has a sharp mind indeed,” Aemon added friendly. “But he is a bit awkward with new people. Do not mind him.”

“Dragonglass you said,” Sam repeated and took in the candle once more. “Never heard of it.”

“It burns, but is not consumed,” Archmaester Marwyn added solemnly.

Sam was confused, trying to make sense of what he had been told.

“But what feeds the flame?”

“What feeds dragonfire?” Marwyn asked and smiled. “All Valyrian sorcery was rooted in blood or fire. The sorcerers of the Freehold could see across mountains, seas, and deserts with one of these glass candles, though their existence probably predates the Freehold and Valyria itself. Through the candles one can also enter a man’s dreams and give him visions and speak to one another half a world apart. What do you think of that, my boy?”

Sam looked at the candle with wonder.

“We no longer would have need of ravens,” he replied at last. “But what you said…you said that the candles were used by the Valyrians, but that they probably predate the Freehold? If not the Valyrians then who made them?”

“A simple answer for a simple question,” Marwyn replied and sat down at the chair next to Aemon. He looked strange, like a giant trying to fit into chair fashioned for a dwarf . “The men that ruled before them. Or do you think Valyria was the first of the ancient civilizations? Tell me, what came before the Valyrians? Do you know?”

Sam wrecked his muddled mind for an answer and guessed.

“The Great Empire of Dawn comes to mind.”

“Good answer,” Marwyn clucked his tongue and shuffled through his bound parchments. They looked very old and smelled of dust. He grabbed for one and showed it Sam. “Maybe you are not as stupid as you look. Come here and see.”

Sam leaned over, taking in the curled scribbling. It looked a bit like High Valyrian, but also different. He certainly couldn’t read it, though he had tried to study the language of the dragonlords.

“What kind of writing is this?”

“An old dialect of High Valyrian,” Marwyn explained. “It is similar, but not the same. Yet, there is more,” he added and showed Sam some broken stone slab. “This writing he couldn’t understand it. It looked more like pictures than symbols.”

“And what language is this one?” Sam asked.

“It looks like birdshit,” Pyp jested.

“It is an old text from the kingdom of Yi Ti. A chronicle, but a copied one. One of my friends at the Citadel, who had travelled these lands intensively, translated it for me and thought me the basics. It speaks about such candles and how the God-Emperor of Yi Ti had a hundred of his servants executed for having them. The chronicle also predates the Freehold, which would  confirm my theory. These candles, whoever made them, were not crafted by Valyrians, though they may have made use of them later.”

“I see,” Sam said, his heart beating wildly. “But why did the God- Emperor kill his servants for having them?”

“That is what we of the League of Knowledge tried to uncover. With success I think,” Marwyn added proudly and showed Sam another stone slab. The writing on this one looked similar, but straighter. “It seems these objects were considered cursed by association with a man feared in Yi Ti.”

“Who?” Sam asked. “Some warlord?”

“A dark sorcerer, whose name is cursed in all of Yi Ti. The Bloodstone Emperor. Have you perhaps heard the tales of his cruelty?”

Sam shook his head. “Will you tell me about him.”

“Not now,” Marwyn said. “It is a long tale and only part of the puzzle we of the League of Knowledge tried to uncover.”

“League of what?” Pyp asked and rubbed his head. “Is that some group of odd Maesters’ or what?”

“Most certainly not, young man!” Marwyn grumbled and gave Pyp a sharp look. “It is a community of knowledge seekers which was founded by Aegon the Unlikely, who wished to discover the secrets of Ancient Valyria.”

“Secret community? Aegon the Unlikely?”

“That sounds mad, I know,” said Maester Aemon. “And our numbers have shrunken, but we do still exist. Prince Rhaegar, Jon Snow’s father was one of us before his death.”

“And what secrets did the Dragon Prince try to uncover?” Sam asked and looked first at Aemon and then at Marwyn.

“The Long Night,” Marwyn explained. “The Others, the Children of the Forest. The Prophecy about the Promised Prince, Azor Azhai and how all of this was connected. That was of great interest to him. All these parchments are the result of our efforts to gain a deeper understanding. It is not much, though I have scoured the secret vaults of the Citadel like a rat a storehouse. Sadly, there are still many secrets to be unlocked.”

“We have made some new discovery in regards to the Promised Prince,” Aemon explained. “It seems Rhaegar actually Lyanna Stark and fathered a child on her. Jon Snow.”

Marwyn nodded his head. “The Blood of the First Men and the Blood of Ancient Valyria? Now that would make for a powerful mixture. At least, the Red Priests would think so. They like to babble madly about the power of Kingsblood.”

Sam’s overwhelmed by all this new information.

“Red Priests?  Kingsblood? I do not understand…”

“And you can’t,” Marwyn told him. “But I shall explain everything to you in good time. For now you must know this…The Red Priests are the worshippers of the Red God. They like to use blood magic to perform magic tricks to win themselves more loyal followers. Most of them are nothing but above-the-average mummers, but some of them certainly know what they are doing. And Kingsblood, well they believe that kingly blood works the best kind of magic.”

“And how is all of this connected to the Others and this Prince?” Pyp asked cluelessly. “And what the bloody hell is an Azor Ahai?”

“A hero of ancient times,” Alleras explained. “He was said to have defeated the Bloodstone Emperor, who was said to have caused the Long Night by slaying the Amethyst Empress. There are as many stories as names for him. All that connects these tales is how he defeated the great evil. He was said to have forged his blade in the heart of his lover, Nissa Nissa, though in some tales she is his daughter or his mother. The same can be said about his legendary sword. _Lightbringer_ is commonly referred to, but its description and looks vary from tale to tale. Some tales say his blade gleamed like moonlight and others say it was red like blood.”

“And to bring all of this back to the Red Priests,” Marywn added. “They believe that this Azor Azhai shall be reborn and face the ancient evil that came before.”

“But you said he killed this Bloodstone Emperor?” Grenn asked dumbly. “Or is he like one of these deadmen?”

“Deadman?” Marwyn asked with a stunned expression. “You saw a deadman?”

“Aye,” Pyp confirmed and jerked his head at Sam. “Sam slew one.”

Marwyn’s eyes went wide like saucers and he exchanged a quick look with Alleras.

Then, he hopped to his feet as quickly as a spring chicken.

“Astounding!” he muttered to himself and paced the room. “Astounding!”

“And you killed the deadman?” Alleras asked with wide black eyes. “Truly?”

"He did,” Gilly added proudly. “I saw him do it. “

“Impressive,” Alleras complimented and looked over at Marwyn, who stood turned to the wall, muttering to himself. “Don’t you agree, Archmaester?”

“Yes, Yes!” the elderly man exclaimed excitedly and turned around to look at Aemon. “Then, the Prince’s visions were not without merit after all. Gods, be good. If this is true we are all royally fucked!”

“Not yet, old friend,” Aemon added quickly. “There is still Princess Daenerys Targaryen. The rumors say she hatched three dragons…like in the prophecy. Remember?”

“The Prince that was Promised,” Marwyn rambled and paced up and down the room. Suddenly, he froze, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape as if he had found enlighten.

“What a mess!” he muttered to himself and searched Maester Aemon’s face.

 “So we have a Prince of powerful blood and a Princess that hatched dragons from stone? Who is the true Promised Prince? Oh, and there was a bleeding star too. Merciful mother, that Princeling was right after all.”

“One of them or both could be the one that was prophesized,” Aemon added. “But there is another thing. In High Valyrian there is no differentiation between Prince and Princess.”

“An interesting theory,” Marwyn rambled on. “But there is still the question of the sword? Have you pondered it, old friend?”

“I have,” Aemon said. “But I came to no satisfying conclusion. Rhaegar thought it might still be out there.”

“He made one last finding before he rode to his untimely death,” Marwyn added with a hesitant smile and shuffled through his heap of papers, until he found the right parchment. “It is a copy of a song, written in ancient Valyrian, a song dedicated to the great hero. He supposedly acquired it from a sorcerer from Qarth or some other place I forgot? Who knows where this proud wizard folk dwell these days.”

“A song,” Aemon said and wrinkled his brows. “Could you translate for us?”

Marwyn smiled and read the song out loud.

 

_Upon the desolate plains of the Grey Waste,_

_The hero’s crimson standard proudly rippled,_

_the Bloody Emperor’s army fled, scattering in_

_confused fright, as shadows flee before dawn_

_They fled from the hero and his sword Lightbringer,_

_Which, forged from a fallen piece of the sun, could cleave all forms and shapes_

_Just as there is only one sun in the heavens, so is there_

_only one hero that walked this earth_

_The hero without compare_

_With sun-forged sword and a bleeding heart_

_Who shall him succeed?_

“A sword from a fallen piece of he sun?” Aemon. “The only origin that resembles this sword was _Dawn_ , the sword of House Dayne, but it couldn’t be that old, could it?”

“Nothing is certain,” Marwyn agreed. “The song was written in Valyrian, but there is no exact indication how old this song really is. Still, it is certainly a hint. As for _Dawn_ …nobody knows when it was forged. There are only tales. The same could be said about the other Valyrian steel swords. As with the candles, some of these swords might have been forged long before the Valyrians. Tobho agrees with me on that.”

“Tobho?” Sam asked, his head pounding from all this information. “Who is that?”

“One of the few smiths able to work with Valyrian steel. He supposedly learned it from a master in Qohor. Probably, another wizard. Only Tobho Mott would be mad enough to meet with such folk, which is why I value is council so much. He is a man who looks beyond what is in front of his nose, unlike the grey rats that are our dear brothers. Well, Aemon they are another reason I came here so quickly. I must warn you not to return to the Citadel. They might do you harm.”

Aemon paled visibly.

“So, you still believe in this conspiracy?”

“I do not only believe it. I know it to be true. I always frowned about Prince Rhaegar for dipping his nose so deep into ancient scriptures and trusting too much in prophecy, but in that case we always agreed. There was something rotten in Summerhall and you know it.”

Aemon smiled sadly.

“I hear you, but do not be afraid. I doubt I will ever make it back to Oldtown. I shall remain here in Braavos and use my last strength to make myself useful.”

Marwyn’s eyebrows rose to the top of his head.

Sam was also confused.

“Maester Aemon…What are you trying to say?”

The old man graced Sam with a placid smile.

“I shall speak to the Iron Bank. Aerys was a mad man, but he was a dutiful customer. Besides, the Sealords never held much love for slavery. Mayhaps I can assist Rhaella’s girl with her efforts in Slaver’s Bay.”

“But I thought we would travel to seek out Princess Daenerys?”

Aemon nodded his head. “Fear not, but we shall not come with empty hands. I am blind, but I have still some wit left inside me, my dear boy.”

 …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Daenerys.
> 
> Just some clarification:
> 
> The Hero that fought against the Others and Azor Azhai are not the same people. 
> 
> Most of this is speculation by the people of this story. Not all is true. Not all prophecies should be taken literal.
> 
> Rhaegar was not completely right nor was he completely wrong about the prophecy stuff. He was not mad, though. Strangely, I always imagined Rhaegar as someone who was slightly autistic and very focused on his special field of interest. To normal people that can appear a bit mad. Marwyn found it amusing. Rhaegar also loved Lyanna and didn't just use her as a baby breeding machine. Elia and he had a difficult relationship, but Rhaegar was never outright cruel to her. More like, with his head in the clouds instead of looking what is right in front of him. Doesn't excuse is stupidity, but I do not think he was some crazy pedophile madman as some people like to think.


	55. Reunions

**Daenerys**

They had barely seen the riders at the outskirts of the Dothraki Sea, a landscape of swaying grass concealing their view.

Yet, then they had seen Ghost, his pale fur visible from afar.

At once, Dany had commanded Drogon to land, Jon following her lead. He was a capable rider, but sometimes he was still showing insecurities.

 _I am only half a dragon_ , he had told her in his usual solemn tone, hiding his insecurity behind an unreadable mask. Jon could be as humble as stubborn, Dany knew by now.

The three riders that had been following after Ghost, had looked like horde of ants, but now as she was climbing down from Drogon’s scaled back she could make out their appearance.

Her heart soared with happiness when she noticed her three blood riders and surprise washed over her when she noticed two more familiar faces: the bear-like stature of Ser Jorah Mormont, seated atop a black stead and Lady Lyanna Stark, garbed in breeches and her hair tightly braided atop her head.

Her bear’s presence had surprised her less than she wanted  to admit. Deep down she had always known that he would eventually return to her, be it as a friend or an enemy.

And here he was, though she felt less anger than she should. _He betrayed me_ , she recalled. But he also helped Jon.

Such confusing thoughts whirled through her head, but Jon’s bright laughter caused her to turn her head. Ghost was suddenly there, pinning Jon to the ground and licking his face.

Rhaegal was not far, his golden eyes watching the scene and emitting tendrils of black smoke from his nose.

“It is good to have you back, boy!” Jon chuckled and freed himself from Ghost’s grip, his dark eyes seeking hers. Dany smiled at the massive wolf, who dipped his head instinctively as she touched his wet nose. He licked her hand and gave a soft howl.

It had sounded almost like a greeting.

“I am glad to see you as well,” she replied and cast her gaze to the distant horizon. They had tried to fly slowly, but dragons were not slaves and thus they had to stop all few leagues to allow Dany’s new-found Khalasar to catch up. If they were lucky they would reach them by sunset.

 _And Meereen in a few da_ ys, she hoped. The Khyzai Pass was not far. For common travelers it would be a dangerous path, but not for a horde of Dothraki and two dragons. _And a wolf_ , she reminded herself as she watched Ser Jorah unhorse, his green cloak fluttering behind him like the plumage of a bird.

He looked exhausted, his face deeply-flushed and sun-burned. A ghost of a smile tugged on his lips as he took in her appearance looked, but not for long.

As he drew nearer he fell to his knees and bowed his head deeply, as a true knight would. Dany’s heart softened at the sight when it should be as hard as stone.

He has seen Aegon, who would have surely promised to take him home for his oaths of loyalty. Yet, he came back. I exiled him and yet he came back.

She knew that the Northmen would not love her for keeping him amidst her entourage, but she knew few men as loyal as Ser Jorah. She would never be able to love him as he desired, but there were different kinds of love. Respect was one of them.

“Rise Ser Jorah,” she told him and raised her head as a Queen ought to do or at least that is what she believed. In truth, she had never seen a true Queen. Her Lady had been a Queen, but that hadn’t been enough to prevent her Lord Father from raping her daily. She had tried to be a Queen from the tales, but now it was time to be herself. “Rise and let me look at your face.”

Ser Jorah lifted his head, but remained kneeling. Jon was not far, but he remained silent, like a knight  standing vigil. In his dark gaze she read mistrust.

“You look exhausted, Ser Jorah,” she told him. “But I supposed I do not look much better,” she added. “But you have my thanks for helping Jon and for coming all this way to find me.”

Then, she swept her gaze over the rest of the entourage.

“I thank you as well for coming, blood of my blood,” she thanked her bloodriders in the Dothraki tongue. “And you, my Lady.”

Lady Lyanna returned her words with a hesitant smile, but her grey eyes were not resting on Dany, but on Jon, who said nothing in return.

 _Fool_ , Dany thought. She understood his anger towards his mother, but at times she also envied him. He at least had a mother. Dany had nothing, but Viserys’ and Ser Barristan’s tales. _At least say something._

She felt the urge to throttle him, but Rhaegal gave a roar and Jon was called to attend to him. A pat and a whistle and the dragon calmed.

“The Dothraki should be here at sunset,” Jon explained.

Dany nodded her head and smiled at Ser Jorah and Lady Lyanna.

”We have made some allies.”

Ser Jorah gave her a surprised look, his bushy eyebrows rising to the top of his head.

“Allies? More Dothraki?”

Dany gave him a knowing smile.

“You will see, Ser Jorah.”

And as the dragon had foretold, they came with the sound of thundering hoofbeats and the song of a thousand war cries.

They liked to be loud, these Dothraki, but that was something Dany had always liked about them.

“They once belonged to Drogo’s khalasar,” Dany explained to her companions after her newfound allies had built their camp at the outskirts of the Dothraki sea. “And they follow me, because they think me the Stallion that Mounts the World.”

“Truly?” Jorah asked. “But wasn’t the stallion supposed to be…you know,” he trailed off when he noticed Jon’s cold stare.

“My son Rhaego,” Dany continued. “I suppose that should be a lesson for us all. Prophecies should not be taken literally. In some sense it came true, though. To the Dothraki Drogon is a Stallion.”

“True,” Lady Lyanna agreed and inclined her head to look at Drogo, who had dug his lair not far from their camp. It was easy to see his trail, burned grass everywhere. “He does have the right coloring. And they will follow us?”

“Of course,” Dany confirmed. “And as you rightly said…I have need of swords to take the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna gave her a tense smile. “Of course.”

 _Aegon won’t like that_ , she knew. But she was beyond caring what Aegon wanted, though she was conflicted on what to do with him.

 _First I will talk to him and make clear that he has lost my trust completely_ , Dany thought. _Then, I shall change my conditions_.  

_He may serve as a possible heir, but Jon and I shall rule. He will either accept that or leave._

_I am done with bowing down to the whims of others. Once I have exacted justice on behalf of my people I shall go home where I belong._

The sky was drenched in crimson, when the sun started to descend behind the horizon, a handful of stars flickering besides a fat moon.

The cookfires roared and in the distance she heard her children’s song.

They were sleeping and she was glad for it.

She was exhausted herself. Tending to them was taxing and her sickness had returned worse than before.

She had eaten a little dried meat that night, but by morn she was emptying her stomach again.

Fear overcame her in that moment.

 _What kind of foul sickness has befallen me_ , she wondered not for the first time and covered the mess with a heap of leaves.

She had no interest in being coddled.

As Dany returned to her dwelling place, she found Lady Lyanna seated before the cookfire. Jon had ridden off with Ghost and Ser Jorah to hunt.

“You look sickly,” Lady Lyanna remarked as Dany sat down before the dying fires. The Lady’s face looked paler than usual and her grey eyes were underlined with dark cringes.

She looked older as well, her short brown hair streaked with silver.

 _Will Jon have grey hair when he is his mother’s age_ , Dany wondered and twirled a silver lock around her finger. _Then, he would look as if he was born as a Targaryen._

“I am well,” she assured her good-sister with a smile and watched the flickering flames. Heaps of ash lay scattered amidst the circle of stones. “I am well.”

“You are not,” Lady Lyanna said directly as ever, her grey eyes narrowed. “I know it well…the symptoms I mean. Sometimes, I thought I was dying, but it got better at the end…,” she trailed off.

Then, she threw a glance over her shoulder as if to make sure that nobody had heard her.

“But why did you say you are barren?” Lady Lyanna asked and leaned forward, her hands placed on her dirty hose. “To avoid a marriage with Aegon? Not that I blame you. I would be a hypocrite to do so…I spurned my betrothal after all. Does Jon about the child?”

Dany felt as if someone had hit her hard over the face.

Her first reaction was anger.

“Are you trying to mock me?” Dany asked. “Why would I lie about something horrid as that?”

“Mocking you was not my intention,” Lyanna explained and raised her hands in defense. “I was just wondering why you would hide it.”

 “Hide what?”

“That you are with child,” Lady Lyanna hissed as she leaned forward. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“I am sick,” Dany snapped back, unable to contain her feelings. “Nothing more and nothing less.”

Lyanna’s eyes widened and without a single word of warning, she touched Dany’s brow.

“You are not warm,” Lyanna said at last. “If it was an inflammation of the stomach you would have more symptoms than a common stomachache. I am not a master, but Haldon thought me some things.”

“That is impossible,” Dany insisted and wanted to rise to her feet, but Lyanna grabbed her hand, holding her in place.

“Why?” Lyanna asked.

Dany knew that there was a certain amount of truth to her words, but neither her heart nor mind could accept that.

It had been so hard to make peace with the truth.

Giving herself up to fruitless hopes was dangerous.

Thus, her answer remained the same.

“It is impossible.”

“Did you miss your moonblood?” Lyanna asked, not letting go.

“It was never regular. Not since I lost my first babe,” Dany explained through clenched teeth.

“And your breasts?” Lyanna asked. “How do they feel?”

Dany blushed.

“Fuller, but I am not yet fully grown. It could be…,” she began, but fell silent when she noticed Lyanna’s shaking head.

“It cannot be.”

“It can be,” Lyanna whispered. “But only a healer can tell you for sure.”

Dany gasped and touched her stomach, a spark of hope jolting through her.

It was a treacherous feeling. She couldn’t risk another heartbreak.

She leaned closer and grabbed Lady Lyanna’s hand, trembling and her breathing labored.

“Which is why I want you to keep this a secret.”

Lyanna nodded her head and brought her finger to her lips.

“My lips are sealed,” she whispered. “For now.”

Dany sighed in relief.

“Thank you.”

…


	56. The Court of Thorns

**Margaery**

“Are you sure?” her Lord Husband asked, his cat-green eyes wide in shock as he stared back at her across the table. “That was fast.”

It was true. Margaery hadn’t expected to have a child so soon, but then she didn’t understand much about these matters. She was nearly ten and eight and until a few moons ago she had still been a maid, despite being a widow. Renly had been kind to her, but he had never taken her to bed. No, he had always ever loved her brother.

Her second husband was very different. He had eagerly taken her too bed, though she doubted he did it out of love. He was an experienced lover, but he gave her no words of flattery like Renly had done.

Margaery didn’t know what she preferred. Renly, who had treated her like a sister or Jaime, who treated her more like a bed companion than his wife.

 _Marriage is a contract_ , her grandmother had told her before her marriage. _You give him heirs and he gives you a crown. It is that simple, dear girl. It worked for me. I could have done worse than your grandfather. He had the intellect of a teaspoon, but our time in bed was quite enjoyable._

 _Well, I fulfilled my part of the contract_ , Margaery thought and took a sip from her steaming cup of tea. _Now he has to fulfill his part of the bargain._

No, that was not completely true. Jaime had given her a kingdom consisting of the Westerlands and Reach, but what her Lord Father truly desired was the Iron Throne.

“Nothing is certain,” Margaery cautioned. “It is not uncommon to lose a babe in the first three moons. It happened to my mother.”

Jaime blew his mane of golden hair out of his face and leaned on his hand, regarding her with a strangely serious expression.

At times, she didn’t know what to make of him. He could be downright cynical at times, especially when he spoke with her father, but at other times he could be as cold as ice.

“I never thought I would have a child,” he said gave her a weary smile. “I had no such expectations, my lady.”

This surprised Margaery, but she tried her best to conceal these feelings.

“Understandable,” she said instead. “You were a man of the Kingsguard. Yet, you were quite persistent…I thought the desire for an heir was the reason.”

  _Or was it something else_ , she wondered, her heart skipping a beat.

She had thought she would hate her new husband, but quite the contrary was the case. Jaime was good-looking, but she also liked his biting humor. She still hoped that he would warm up to her in time.

Her grandmother might think that a marriage based on a contract was pleasing, but Margaery had always hoped for more.

Yet, she was aware that the shadow of Queen Cersei’s death was still looming over him. He would deny it, but when he was fucking her he never looked her in the face…

“Well, you didn’t refuse me,” Jaime replied with amusement. “I supposed your father will be pleased.”

Margaery nodded her head. “Very happy. But it better be a boy.”

Jaime frowned at that. “As if we have influence on that.”

Margaery chuckled. “Well, someone told me once that I ought to drink lots of milk during a full moon to get with child. Well, that didn’t work out the way I imagined.”

Jaime gave her a confused look.

“Renly bedded you? I remember the blood from our wedding night?”

“Renly never touched me,” Margaery replied and blushed, both out of shame that she had revealed Renly’s secret and because she was talking about such intimate matters with her new husband. “He treated me like a sister.”

“So, it is true what they say,” Jaime said. “He preferred boys, didn’t he?”

“He preferred my brother,” Margaery explained. “They were very devoted to each other. I know it is a sin, but I do not understand why it should be. Love comes in all shapes and forms.”

Jaime clucked his tongue and took a sip from his cup of wine. “I took you for a pious follower of the Faith, my lady.”

Margaery laughed. “Most of it is to keep appearances. I always found the Seven-Pointed-Star dreadfully boring. Besides, most of these Septons are scoundrels of the vilest sort. The Septon who held our ceremony fathered three children and keeps himself a lover. Such men have no right to judge my brother.”

“That is quite true. The Last High Septon supposedly kept a married woman as his bed companion. What a hypocrite. The same could be said about the Kinsguard. Oswell Whent repeatedly visited brothels. Lewyn as well and Darry…Darry was the worst of all.  Most men do not take their vows as seriously as they claim. It is as you said...all about keeping up appearances.”

“I suppose so,” Margaery said, unsure whether she wanted to continue with this topic. More than once she had wanted to bring up the topic of Queen Cersei, but she had always backed out of it in the last moment.

She was afraid that Jaime might take it the wrong way.

 _Too early_ , she decided and rose to her feet, brushing her hands over her silken skirt. _Another time._

“I should leave you now, my lord. My father and the others must expect you.”

Jaime frowned at that. _He finds father bothersome_ , she knew.

His next question confused her.

“Your grandmother is always there, but you are hiding. Why is that, my lady?”

“My grandmother is a special person,” Margaery replied, but felt flattered that he wanted her there. Her Lord Father wanted her to be a pretty bird meant to entertain his lords, but she had always wanted to be more than that. “My father would never dare to send her away. He is afraid of her and he has dire need of the Redwynes, given what happened at the Shield Islands.”

Jaime’s smile vanished immediately, for the taking of the Shield Islands had made their situation only more difficult.”

Not long ago, word had reached them that Euron Greyjoy, the new King of the Iron Islands had taken the Shield Islands and was now slowly moving up the Mander. Truly, it was no wonder that Old Lord Hightower had only sent them a few thousand men-at-arms and was asking for the Redwyne fleet to be deployed to Oldtown.  That Stannis Baratheon was supposedly gathering his troops at Harrenhall made it only harder to predict how the situation would turn out.

_The tide could turn at any time._

Margaery had learned this hard lesson with Renly.

Her Lord Father was a different matter.

“I think I have changed my mind, my lord,” Margaery declared at last. “I think I want to attend this meeting after all.”

Jaime’s face lightened up with amusement as he offered his arm to her.

“And I shall be pleased to see your lord father’s face.”

Margaery chuckled. She loved her father, but it was always amusing to vex. Her grandmother tended to make a sport out of it.

Her father’s flowery solar served as their war council. It was a round chamber, furnished with a large table covered with vines of gold and green, meandering their way up the table’s feet. The walls were covered with heavy tapestries and the chairs were placed along the walls to make room for the men that had gathered here.

Margaery knew them all by name and rank, but felt out of place. A bit like a hen in a room fool of cocks.

All heads turned as they entered.

Her Lord Father stood at the head of the table, flanked by Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Paxter Redwyne. Her brother Willas was seated, Garlan  and Loras looming next to him like a shadow. Especially, Garlan was giving Tarly cold looks. The grim lord of Hornhill had never hidden his dislike for Willas, calling him a useless cripple. Truly, the only reason her father had never spoken out against the Lord of Hornhill was that he had need of his abilities.

“My Lady,” Lord Rowan greeted her with a smile and made space for her. Lord Fassoway, father to Garlan’s wife, had gotten a chair for her. “Please sit comfortably, your Grace. Your state is a delicate one.”

_Grandmother certainly didn’t waste much time to spread the happy news._

There were more lords present, safe for Lord Layton Hightower, who was as he had informed them in his last letter, preparing Oldtown for a potential attack against the Ironborn.

Jaime looked even more out of place, as most of his men had returned to the Westerlands to prepare for war.

As always, Jaime didn’t hesitate to get straight to the point.

“What news do we have on King Euron?”

“Continues his raiding spree along the Mander, the Arbor and the Whispering Sound,” Lord Redwyne explained unhappily and moved his finger long the blue stripe upon the map that represented the Mander. “We deployed troops, but they were ambushed and our ships captured or destroyed.”

“Ambushed?” Tarly asked. “How did the Ironborn scum ambush your men?”

Lord Paxter Redwyne smiled tensely. “They left their ships undefended. My men underestimated…,” he began, but Tarly cut him off.

“You marched straight into their trap, didn’t you?”

“The mists were as thick as a potato soup!” Lord Rowan defended his men. “Suddenly, they were there, butchering my men left and right. The moment the battle was done the mist dispersed. When my men returned to their ships they found them burning. I do not know what to make of this incident. It sounds like magic.”

“Magic?” The Queen of Thorns asked as her eyes darted to Lady Brienne, who stood at the wall with the rest of the guardsmen.  She had been there when Renly had supposedly died by the hands of a shadow. The only reason she had lived was that Margaery had asked her brother to spare her. “Are we children?”

“No,” Willas added in a heavy voice. He looked exhausted, the hollowness of his face only hidden by his long brown hair. “But this Euron Greyjoy is cleverer than we give him credit for. The taking of he Shield Islands proves that.”

“I agree with Lord Tyrell,” Jaime added. “Euron Greyjoy is a madman. Who knows how much his years in exile have changed him. And one should never underestimate one’s enemy. I did that with Robb Stark and paid for my mistake. My father did as well, which is why I think we should send more ships to engage Euron Greyjoy. Storm’s End should be our last priority. Blocking the Roseroad should do enough damage to Stannis Baratheon.”

Lord Tarly gave an approving nod. Lord Rowan and Lord Redwyne looked pleased. Even Willas smiled.

“Good,” the Queen of Thorns said. “But I do not think that Euron Greyjoy’s silly tricks will work a second time. What we have sent him were small fishes. We shall repay them a thousand-fold. I say, a quarter of the ships should be enough to make quick work of our enemy. The others can besiege whatever castle you want to besiege, Mace. What do you say, my lords?”

“How many ships did you need to besiege Storm’s End the last time, Lord Tyrell?” Jaime asked her Lord Father bitingly.

“Certainly not an entire fleet,” her Lord Father declared proudly. “But this time we won’t fail. Lord Rowan shall capture Storm’s End, my Loras shall capture Dragonstone, and my Garlan shall accompany Lord Redwyne to engage the Ironborn.”

“And I shall continue to block the Roseroad, your Grace,” Lord Tarly explained and gave Jaime a challenging look.

He was eager for battle. So much was clear.

“And shall return to the Golden Tooth, to lay in wait for Stannis should he and his fishy allies decide to leave the protection of Harrenhall. My Uncle has already gathered a host of fifteen-thousand men, but I would be thankful for a few thousand more, Lord Tarly. They say your men are very capable.”

“They are,” Tarly replied coldly. “But I can’t spare more than five-thousand men, your Grace.”

Jaime frowned, but he had not much of a choice. Most of the men in this room only tolerated him because they had no other choice.

Only Tarly made his dislike known.

“I would prefer to attack Riverrun. Let us capture Edmure Tully and the Riverlords will abandon Stannis as quickly as a whore her poor suitor.”

“Riverrun is a well-fortified castle, Lord Tarly,” Garlan added politely. “I prefer ‘his Grace’s’ plan. Starving Stannis out will not only weaken his allies, but might also force him into a battle. Stannis cannot wait out winter. So much is sure.”

“And I think you are just afraid of Stannis,” Tarly complained anew and swept his gaze over the assembled group of men. “I defeated Robert Baratheon, who was much more of a warrior than him. I can do it again.”

Jaime’s face remained unreadable, but the tone of his voice betrayed his annoyance. “Nobody doubts your abilities. I want to kill Stannis and his Red Whore as much as you, but I shall not butcher my father’s men needlessly. Don’t fret, when the time comes I shall be prepared to fight.”

“Very well,” Lord Tarly snorted. “Let’s hide away like wailing women.”

…


	57. The Princess of Dorne

**Arianne**

“You must bring your brother home,” her Lord Father told her, the expression on his face weary and distant.

It was midday, the hot sun burning down on them like the breath of hell. Not even the spray of the fountains helped.

“What if it is a trap?” Arianne asked. “We don’t know anything about this boy. Who knows were Quentyn picked him up.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you, dear child,” her Lord Father said and clucked his tongue. “Quentyn is soft of heart, but no fool. There must be something about that boy that convinced him of the truth. Well, to be sure, your Uncle Oberyn and your cousins are going to keep you company.”

Arianne didn’t like the sound of that. She loved her Uncle Oberyn dearly, but she didn’t want a chaperone to watch her every move.

_That is your own fault, silly girl._

“You should invite your _supposed_ nephew here,” Arianne returned and stretched her limps. The canopy was soft and she felt too lazy to travel to the Stormlands, especially after the horrid incident with Princess Myrcella. “He wants our support. He should come to us.”

Her Lord Father gave her an unhappy look. “The boy has already invaded the Stormlands and retaken Griffin Roost. I doubt he would want to abandon his cause to sip wine with an old man.”

“Or to hide something,” Arianne countered mistrustfully. Quentyn was her brother, also her rival. Yet, she couldn’t voice such thoughts in front of her Lord Father. “We should be careful.”

Her Lord Father sighed.

“Which is why I am sending Oberyn and your cousins with you. At least, that way I can ease Ellaria’s burden. These girls can be quite a handful. They are in dire need of a useful occupation.”

“I suppose so,” Arianne said. “Well, Tyene and Sarella are off to attend to their own business. That leaves me with Obara, Nym, Elia and my Uncle? It will be like travelling with a horde of unruly children. I would prefer to take Aunt Ellaria with me, to keep them in line.”

“I am sure Oberyn would like that,” her Lord Father said. He looked exhausted these days. _Close to death._

Arianne’s heart clenched with guilt.

_I shouldn’t think like that. It is a sin._

“Very well,” Arianne agreed at last. “I shall go, but what if the boy turns out to be a pretender? I doubt they would allow us to go free.”

“In truth, it doesn’t matter whether the boy is a pretender. At least, not for me, dear child. I am dying…I only want to see Elia avenged and the boy is our best chance to accomplish this goal. And by marrying you, Martell blood will sit the Iron Throne. We can only win.”

Arianne couldn’t help but to disagree with that assessment. She had hated the idea of seeing Quentyn wed to Princess Daenerys Targaryen, but it surprised her that her Lord Father would support this boy without even meeting him.

 _The letter must have said more than what father told me_ , she knew and felt anger stirring inside her heart.

She knew why her Lord Father kept secrets from her, but it hurt.

“You want me to wed this boy?” Arianne asked and rolled unto her stomach, her bare feet dangling in the air. “What about Daenerys Targaryen? Why is she not with our _supposed_ nephew?”

“I want you to be Queen,” her Lord Father reminded her of his promise. “And that is the best way to accomplish our goal. I do not know why Princess Daenerys is not present, but I am sure we will know more once you have met with this boy.”

Arianne huffed, blowing her black locks out of her face and rolled back on her side.

“So, you want me to seduce this boy?”

“Indeed. Seduce him and marry him. I had hoped you would enjoy this task.”

Arianne had heard the teasing in her  Lord Father’s voice an couldn’t help but to frown.

“I enjoy such tasks,” Arianne said and searched her father’s face. “But if I have to do this then I want to do it properly. Give me Dorne’s spears. I need to sell this mummery convincingly.”

Her Lord Father gave a hesitant nod.

“Very well. Three-thousand. Not more than that.”

Arianne had hoped for more, but at least she wouldn’t have to face this Prince with empty hands. He may be a potential pretender, but he had the loyalty of the Golden Company.

“What about the little Princess? I know Trystane is quite fond of her, but I think she would be fitting gift for our _supposed_ nephew.”

Her father nodded his head in agreement.

“The girl is a bastard and means nothing to me now that the Lannisters are gone. Take her with you if you must. She has recovered enough.”

“Ser Jaime is now King of the Rock and the Reach,” Arianne reminded him. “He would never forgive us.”

“Mace Tyrell is a fickle man,” her Lord Father countered. ”He might change his mind. I also think we shouldn’t underestimate Stannis Baratheon. He is no fool.”

“If you say so, father,” Arianne said and smiled tensely. “Well, I shall leave at your command. I wonder when that will be? Obara and Uncle Oberyn are still out there hunting for the Darkstar.”

Her father smiled. “Word reached me that they will return soon.”

Her Lord Father’s words turned out to be true, for two days later she found herself watching them ride through the palace gates.

She pushed herself through the crowd of onlookers and was pleased to find Obara alive. They all wore glittering helms and polished armor. Her Uncle stood out with his striped cloak of orange, yellow and red.

Yet, there was no trace of the Darkstar.

Arianne hated him for dragging her into this mess, but he had once been her bed companion and she had a rule that she would never kill those that had tasted her breast.

It made Arianne wonder if they had found them at all.

“Cousin,” Obara greeted her with a quick bow. “I apologize for making you wait. When shall we depart?”

“On the morrow,” her Uncle added and pulled off his helmet. The tip of his spear was polished like a diamond, but she spotted stains of blood on his cloak. “Doran wouldn’t want us to dally around, but first I must take my leave from Ellaria.”

“Indeed,” Arianne agreed, her eyes still fixed on the stains of blood. “Father is most eager to see us gone.”

She swallowed hard and lifted her head. “Did you find him?”

“We didn’t find the Darkstar,” Obara grumbled, her voice laced with obvious disappointment.

“What happened to him?” Arianne asked.

“Ran off,” her Uncle Oberyn added his displeasure. “But do not fret. I shall find him and then I shall cut off more than just his ears.”

“He would be a fool to linger in Dorne,” Arianne countered. “Well, we must concern ourselves with our new-found nephew. That is what father wants. He even promised me three-thousand Dornish spears.”

Her Uncle gave her a sad smile and placed a quick kiss on her brow.

“That doesn’t surprise me. The Maester gave him six more moons.”

Arianne felt a sharp sting in her heart.

_I should have known better. He didn’t do it because I asked him._

Arianne departed soon after, seeking out the little Princess.

The girl was a bastard, but she had never wanted to see her hurt.

As always, she found the little Princess and her brother Trystane seated at the cyvasse table.  The girl had been very cheerful in her first moons, but a gloomy expression had taken hold over her after the death of her family. Trystane had been her only joy. Sadly, the girl’s hopes of wedding him were in vain.

Arianne stopped at the door and smiled at her brother.

“May I speak alone with the Princess?”

Trystane gave her a suspicious look. “Father wants to send her away, doesn’t he?”

Arianne bit her lip. “Father wants her to travel with me to the Stormlands... as part of an envoy.”

“And then? Will you cut off her other ear?” Trystane asked, dark eyes narrowed.

“No,” Arianne appeased her little brother. “I mean no harm to Myrcella. This was all a terrible mistake.”

Trystane frowned, but obeyed.

Myrcella’s green eyes showed just as much mistrust.

“How are you feeling?” Arianne asked hesitatingly.

“Where am I to go?” the girl asked without pretense, all sweetness gone from her lips.

“To the Stormlands,” Arianne explained. “We are to  meet my cousin, Prince Aegon Targaryen.”

The little Princess’ eyes widened in confusion.

“They say Prince Aegon was smothered by his mother’s hands.”

 _Lies_ , Arianne wanted to shout. _Lies made up by Tywin Lannister to hide his rotten soul. And the Usurper._  

“So, what am I to be? A hostage or an honored guest?” the girl asked, her lips twisting into a grimace. Her golden hair was swept over her left shoulder and her ear was still heavily bandaged, the linen soiled with blood and pus. “I suppose I am no longer of use to you. You said you wanted to make me Queen and that my Uncle Jaime might support me. You promised that I would be able to wed Trystane, but instead you allowed this horrid men...to hurt me.”

 _Poor girl_ , Arianne thought and fiddled with the sash of her dress. She had to give her the truth. “You were a hostage since your grandfather perished in King’s Landing.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders, a hopeless expression taking hold of her face. Arianne could only stare at the girl's soiled bandages. The Darkstar had taken the girl's ear and had damanged her beauty forever.

“I suppose your tales were nothing but empty lies. Why not simply kill me and be done with it?”

“I never wanted to see you hurt,” Arianne assured her. “You have to believe me…,” she continued, but the girl flashed her a look of utter disgust.

“Stop lying. Ever since, I came here your cousins were vying after my life. Your brother is the only one who cares for me. Truly, the only reason I played along with your silly ploy was because I had hoped to wed your brother. I see now, how foolish that was. Nobody wants to wed a bastard.”

There was no reason to contradict her words. It was the true. Even so, Arianne felt pity for the girl.

“Trystane loves you. I might be able to…,” Arianne began, but the girl cut her off once more.

“Spare me your lies!” the girl snapped angrily, her lips twisting into another smile. “At least, my Uncle Jaime is still alive. Leave me now. I must pack my belongings and take my leave from Trystane.”

There was nothing more to say.

“Very well.”

They left a week later.

The voyage had been even more boring than her long imprisonment. Not even Nym’s, Elia’s and Obara’s company could lift her spirit these days, her last interaction with the Princess still weighing heavily on her mind.

Said Princess had not spoken a single world throughout their whole journey. No, she had acted all prim and proper, her pale face a mask of cold indifference.

Uncle Oberyn, who had taken a liking to the girl, had tried to spark a conversation with her, but she remained silent as ever.

The weather had been another source of displeasure.

Stormy grey skies had greeted them as they made their way along the coast, giving her sleepless night. Two weeks later, they finally encountered ships belonging to this Prince Aegon Targaryen.

Once, they had revealed their identity and purpose, they were promised an audience with the King and his Hand Lord Connington. They had also told her that Quentyn would be there to greet her.

Griffin Roost proved as glum as its name. Exhausted, they were lead into a large hall, where servants awaited them with cups of mulled wine and cakes soaked in honey.

The taste of the wine helped to warm her, but when she spotted Lord Connington she couldn’t help but to tense.

There was something cold and unpleasant about this man. He was neither ugly nor handsome, but his blue eyes were as cold as ice as they fell on her Uncle.

“The Red Viper of Dorne.”

“Lord Jon Connington,” her Uncle replied curtly. “We thought you had drunken yourself into an early grave.”

“That was only part of my mummery,” the man assured him, his deep blue eyes flickering to her. “Lord Varys suggested it.”

“So it is true. The Spider saved my sister’s son?” her Uncle asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I suppose I have to thank him for his act of kindness.”

“You came to see my King,” Lord Connington replied coldly and waved his hand at the door. “I suppose you are eager to meet him.”

Her Uncle nodded his head in conformation.

“That is so.”

Arianne, her Uncle, her cousins and Myrcella followed after the tongue-tied Lord of Griffin Roost.

Upon her entrance into the dimly-lit solar, she was greeted by a handsome young man.

Aegon Targaryen. Her cousin. Her King.

Aegon Targaryen swept through the room and kissed her hand.

“Welcome, my Lady.”

“Thank you,” Arianne replied and took in his appearance. He had the Targaryen coloring, so much she could see at the first glance. There were stains of blue in his silver hair and his eyes had a purple gleam. He was also quite tall, but that didn’t mean much, for Arianne was of a rather slender build. She had also never met Rhaegar Targaryen and couldn’t say whether the boy showed some sort of resemblance to him.

 _I better leave this task to my Uncle_ , she thought and turned around to wave her hand at her travelling companions.

“May I introduce my Uncle, Prince Oberyn Martell. And my cousins, Nym, Elia and Obara. And the Lady beside me is...Princess Myrcella Baratheon.”

Aegon Targaryen’s eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his composure as her Uncle stepped towards him and lowered his head in greeting.

“Your Grace,” he said with a secretive smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Aegon Targaryen smiled, his purple gaze darting to Quentyn and then back at her Uncle.

It didn’t surprise her that her brother had remained. That was always his way. To hide away in the shadows.

“Quentyn told me much you,” Aegon Targaryen said. He looked nervous, but hid it well behind a trembling smile.

It was a pleasant smile, but that didn’t make him Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.

Not that it would matter. Her Lord Father had made his plans clear to her.

What her Uncle Oberyn was thinking about all this was still a mystery to her, but then she was rarely allowed insight into her Lord Father’s and Uncle’s plotting.

“It is good to see you again, Quent,” her Uncle said and smiled warmly at her brother. “Arianne missed you dearly.”

Arianne forced a smile over her lips and gave a hesitant nod.

“I did, dear brother.”

Quentyn’s expression remained guarded.

“Mayhaps we should sit down.”

“A good idea,” her Uncle Oberyn agreed and turned his attention to Obara, Elia, Nym and Myrcella. “My daughters shall escort the Princess to her chamber.”

Myrcella said nothing, but Obara looked unhappy to be dismissed.

Arianne could hear her silent curses as they left the solar.

They sat down on a round table made of oak and covered with silver griffins. The chair was decorated with even more griffins, but the cushion was soft and deep.

They had a small supper, consisting of oysters and salad, followed by sweet plums.

Arianne had watched Aegon at all times. His manners were perfect and he seemed to know more about Dorne’s history than the average person, though that didn’t prove his birth. _Well, at least I am not going to wed a peasant dressed up as a King._

“We only have Arbor Gold,” Aegon apologized. “The brew of the enemy.”

“The Fat Flower of will soon regret that he allied himself with the Kingslayer, but nobody can say that the Reachmen have bad wine. I am honest. I have always preferred Arbor Gold, but do not tell my brother.”

Arianne rolled her eyes.

“The Fat Flower?” Aegon asked almost innocently. “Are you perhaps referring to Lord Mace Tyrell?”

“Lord Mace Tyrell it is,” her Uncle confirmed. “He has an ‘imposing’ stature, which is where the name stems from. Well, let us not speak about past grudges. Let us speak about the future.”

Aegon gave her Uncle a surprised look.

“You don’t want to hear how I survived?”

Her Uncle Oberyn leaned back in his chair and laughed, crossing one leg over the other. “I trust Quentyn’s word and Lord Connington here is enough proof for me. Well, I do not like your supposed entanglement with the Spider, but I assume he has his reason. By the way, where is Lord Varys?”

“Off on some important errant of his,” Lord Connington grumbled. “Believe me, my Prince. We do not like his presence, but he is rather useful.”

“So much is clear,” her Uncle added gleefully. “And as you can see…my brother has already sent you three-thousand Dornish spears. There will be more if we come to a satisfying agreement.”

Aegon’s purple gaze darkened, his eyes flickering to Arianne and then back to her Uncle Oberyn.

“You want me to wed my cousin.”

 _At least he is no dimwit_ , Arianne realized with great relief. A bastard she could have tolerated, but not a dimwit.

“Exactly,” her Uncle confirmed without hesitation. _To make sure that there is at least an ounce of Dornish blood in the next King occupying the Iron Throne_ , Arianne knew, but kept these thoughts to herself. “And it isn’t like my niece has much competition. Princess Daenerys is barren and Margaery Tyrell is wed to the Kingslayer. The rumors also say she is with child.”

“Lord Varys told us,” Aegon confirmed and smiled. “What about Princess Myrcella Baratheon? Why did you bring her here?”

“No, but a way to claim the Stormlands. She is most likely a bastard, but who cares about such things these days,” her Uncle quipped and circled his cup in his hand. “These days, everyone can call himself a King, even an oathbreaker and kingslayer.”

Aegon nodded his head and brushed a strand of silver hair out of his face.

“Are you sure that she is a bastard?” he asked and smiled sweetly. “Robert Baratheon’s daughter might help me to win over the former rebel kingdoms, no?”

“I doubt that,” Arianne added. “They say that Robb Stark’s allegiance with Stannis Baratheon is not as strong as some believe, but I doubt he would support a female bastard in favor of a male heir.”

Aegon chuckled.

“Forgive me, cousin. I was just testing the waters. There, was never a question about our marriage. You are certainly the best choice.”

Arianne didn’t believe him and wondered if Daenerys Targaryen’s supposed bareness was only a way to conceal his failure in courting her.

Arianne knew her father would chide her, but she wanted to know if there was competition waiting for her in the future.

“What about Princess Daenerys?” Arianne asked sweetly. “Will she join us once you have taken the crown?”

Aegon Targaryen tensed.

“She is occupied with her war in Slaver’s Bay,” Aegon Targaryen began, but Quentyn cut him off, which surprised Arianne. Her brother was rarely this forward.

“She refused us not only because of her barreness, but because she has taken a lover…a certain Jon Snow, who claims to be Rhaegar Targaryen’s and Lady Lyanna Stark’s son.”

Silence reigned. Her Uncle clutched the handle of his chair tightly as he leaned forward to search Quentyn’s face.

“What do you say?”

“Not only that,” Aegon said with great displeasure. “But it seems Lady Lyanna Stark is also alive.”

“Impossible!” it escaped Arianne. “Lord Eddard Stark brought her corpse before  Robert Baratheon. This is utter…,” she trailed off.

“This is utter madness,” Lord Connington finished for her and stroked his beard. He looked conflicted. “But I fear it is true. The boy has the Stark coloring, but he has the right age and shares Prince Rhaegar’s eyes. As for Lady Lyanna Stark…she is also alive.”

“She is of no importance,” Aegon insisted angrily. “I am the only dragon you need. Let my Aunt fuck my bastard half-brother and waste away at Slaver’s Bay. In the meantime, we shall take the Iron Throne for our own.”

Her Uncle Oberyn was still clutching the handle of his chair, his dark eyes narrowed.

“They say she has three dragons.”

“Small dragons,” Quentyn added quietly. “Barely big enough to be ridden. And one of them was quite taken with Aegon. He might have even mounted the dragon had this Jon Snow not stopped us.”

“’Might’ means nothing,” Arianne told her brother. “Can she ride one of these dragons?”

“No,” Aegon assured her. “I think not. Well, I shall mount Viserion once my Aunt comes to join us in Westeros, but by then I shall have the crown and then it will be hard for her to challenge my claim.”

“It could work,” her Uncle said suddenly and smiled. “But it could also end badly for us. We have to act quickly.”

Aegon returned her Uncle’s smile.

“I agree. We should hurry.”

Arianne swallowed hard.

“What is your next goal?”

Aegon and Lord Connington exchanged a silent look.

“Storm’s End, cousin. Storm’s End.”

…


	58. The Green Prince

**Bran**

Bran was drifting in an out of the world. He was surrounded by darkness, never ending darkness that made him feel as if he was drowning. It was so easy to allow himself to drift away by these beautiful visions, but like all men he had to occasionally swim back to the surface to catch air.

Now, was such a moment and like always he felt utterly exhausted by his efforts. Breathing hard, he opened his two seeing eyes and closed his third one to blend out the colorful visions that were threatening to overwhelm him.  He felt slightly dizzy as he swept his gaze through the cave. Moments ago, he had still been flying over the sky and only a day ago he had been climbing up the highest tree. Sometimes, he also slipped into the roots of the tree, allowing the feeling of the warm earth and the icy winds to wash over him.

The rushing water was the first sound that reached his ears. Next, came the sound of Meera’s voice, a croaking and soft whisper that was echoed back at him through the cave.

“Bran,” she said, the sound of her voice weak and distant to his ears. “Bran.”

Suddenly, she was there, her pale face as bright as a full moon on the inky sky. One hand touched his shoulder and the other touched his cheek. They felt so warm. His heart skipped a beat, but he knew that it was in vain. Meera was all grown-up and Bran was a boy. A crippled boy at that.

 _Lord Brynden promised me that I would fly_ , he reminded himself and forced a smile over his lips as his eyes darted to his teacher. The Children called him the Three-Eyed-Crow and Bran called him Lord Brynden. He was so old and fragile-looking that Bran often feared a current of wind could break him apart. Yet, every time he opened his eyes he was still there, alive and watching over him with his one red eye.

“What is it, Meera?” Bran asked weakly. “Where is Jojen?”

Meera’s eyes swam with tears. “Dead. He perished from his fever. The Children took him away.”

Bran felt a gush of sadness washing over him. Guilt was also there, but also confusion.

“Why?” he asked, shouting at the old man an in the tree. “Why did you take him! Answer me at once!”

“My Children took care of his body,” Lord Brynden replied in a groaning voice. “Or he might rise as one of the enemy and betray our hiding place.”

“Them?” Bran asked in fear and excitement, Jojen briefly forgotten. “Are they close?”

“They are always watching,” the Three-Eyed-Crow replied. “We must be careful.”

“He was still my brother,” Meera complained and brushed the hood of her pelted cloak over her head to hide her fresh tears. Then, she curled up beside the tree, silent cries wrecking her body. Bran rolled over and pulled himself across the dirt to reach Meera. “Where is Hodor?”

“The giant is sleeping,” Lord Brynden explained. “There is no need to fret, my boy. Come back, it is time for our next lesson.”

“Another one?” Bran asked wearily.

“The hour is late. We have no time to waste. Now close your eyes and sink deep into the roots as I showed you.”

Bran did as he was asked, slipping off his human skin and forgetting about everything around him.

All sadness was washed away, leaving nothing but the barest conscious thought.

“Focus,” Bran heard the soft whisper of Lord Brynden's voice at the edge of his consciousness. “Focus.”

Bran tried to focus, but the visions washed over him with the brightness of a thousand suns.

It was too much.

“Let me help you,” Lord Brynden’s voice caressed his ears and at once the world stopped. Bran felt as if he had been thrown into a sea of cold water. His breathing hitched as he sunk deeper and deeper into the darkness, before he resurfaced gain, the vision before him taking shape.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a grove of weirwood trees, crimson leaves and a bleeding face staring back at him. When he swept his gaze around he found more weirwoods, in all kinds of different shapes. There were tall ones with long faces. Small ones with broad faces. Crooked ones with ugly grimaces that would have even frightened Arya. Yet, none of them were as tall and imposing as the weirwood tree growing out of the middle of the grove. Its trunk was incredibly thick, its bleeding face as tall as a man.

As Bran walked towards the tree he noticed that he was on an island, the green waters glimmering like emeralds in the dying sunlight. In the distance stood a vast castle with five black towers kissing the bleeding sky.

 _Harrenhall_ , he knew at once. The sight took his breath away.  _It looks just like in Old Nan’s stories!_

He could have admired the castle forever, but the appearance of someone disturbed his moment of silent admiration.

It was a beautiful girl, who was walking along the shoreline. She had long brown hair, grey eyes, and wore a blue gown and a crown of blue winter roses in her hair. She was walking barefeet, an amused smile playing on her lips as she looked around, searching for someone or something.

Bran believed he had seen her before, but the memory was distant, like the sad feelings clenching around his heart.

 _Jojen_ , he thought, the memory ever fading.  _He died for me._

The sudden sound of footfalls, caused him to turn around, a deep voice breaking the silence.

“My Lady Lyanna,” the man said and bowed his head. “I thought you might not wish to see me after today’s conundrum.”

Besides, Lord Brynden, Bran had never seen a Targaryen in flesh and blood, but he was sure that this was one. The man in front of him was tall and graceful, his even-shaped face framed by soft silver hair. His dark purple eyes shone with warmth and sadness.

The name he had given had woken Bran’s memory.  _Is this my Aunt? Then, the man must be Prince Rhaegar! There is no other possibility._

The woman chuckled and crossed her arms in front of her.

“I should have hurled the crown at you!” she teased the man and dropped a perfect curtsy. She had something of Arya about her, but the way she had dropped the curtsy made Bran think of Sansa. “But it happens that these kinds of flowers are my favorites.”

“So, I was told,” the Prince replied. “Your brother told me.”

“Benjen,” his Aunt said, her grey eyes widening in surprise. Then, she smiled. “I should have known. But why humiliate me so?”

A sad smile flickered over the Prince’s lips.

“That was not my intention, though I suppose your betrothed perceived it so. Well, I know why I gave you the crown. Not many ladies would don the armor of a knight to defend her father’s vassal. That is deserving of admiration.”

“Admiration?” his Aunt asked and narrowed her grey eyes. She carried the same expression as Arya whenever Sansa said something particularly stupid. “What about your wife? Does she think the same way, because most think I have already bedded down with you.”

“My wife knows about my intentions towards you,” the Prince explained softly. “We have made a bargain.”

His Aunt laughed. “A bargain about what?”

“That she would not hold my transgressions against me as long as I keep my promises to her.”

His Aunt frowned and touched the crown atop of her head.

“I fear I do not understand you at all, your Grace.”

The Prince smiled softly and stepped closer, looming over his Aunt by at least half a head.

“Your brother told me you are not very devoted to Lord Baratheon,” he said and leaned down to lift her hand too his lips. “I know a way you could escape such an unwanted entanglement.”

“Do you?” his Aunt asked and pulled her hand away, her cheeks deeply blushed and one tooth biting into her lower lip. “How?”

“You could marry me instead.”

Silence hung over them, like a sharp blade ready to strike down at any moment.

Even, Bran had held his breath. It made no sense.

Rhaegar Targaryen had killed his Aunt. Why would he ask her to marry him?

“And you think Robert is going to accept that?” his Aunt asked. “He has a storm temper and wanted me to destroy the crown.”

“And yet, the crown is still there and whole,” the Prince interrupted her. “Why is that?”

The blush on his Aunt’s cheeks intensified and made her look even lovelier.

“You are a fool,” she replied rudely. “And a dreamer. I like your crown, but I cannot wed you. I shan’t be your whore. My father would never speak to me again.”

“What about Robert Baratheon?”

“I won’t wed him either. The drunk fool,” his Aunt snapped proudly. In that moment, she had looked so much like Arya that Bran’s heart had longed to embrace the ghost of this girl, only to have a glimpse of Arya back with him for a sweet moment. “I am going beyond the Wall where nobody can find me. Robert won’t miss me. He will soon chase after lady who has the patience for a man like him.”

Prince nodded his head in understanding.

“I see now, why they call you the she-wolf. I am just surprised you have no fangs hidden somewhere.”

“I have no fangs, but a dagger,” she told him and showed him the dagger she wore fastened at her hip. “I know how to defend myself.”

“I figured so much,” the Prince chuckled. “I saw you riding at the tourney.”

“Benjen thought me. He is going with me to live with the Wildlings.”

“Why the Wildlings?”

“Everything is better than to be locked up at Storm’s End,” his Aunt scoffed and turned around, taking one last glance at the Prince. “I do not see how being wed to you would be any less of an imprisonment.”

“I would not imprison you, my Lady,” the Prince’s voice echoed behind her, his dark eyes following her longingly and the world around him growing blurred.

It took Bran a moment to find his focus. He sucked in a deep breath and opened his eyes again.

Next, he found himself on a dirty road, large trees casting long shadows in their wake.

When Bran turned around he realized that he was not alone. A young girl was grouching on the ground, her dress tattered and her hair in disarray. Around her lay corpses, blood staining their cloaks and armor.

Her dirt-smeared face made her hard to recognize, but her voice betrayed her identity as did the presence of the silver-haired man.

“Do not touch me!” his Aunt snapped in obvious confusion at Prince Rhaegar, garbed all in black, his bloodied sword still in hand. With him was another man, tall and silver-haired  and graced with deep violet eyes. This must be Ser Arthur Dayne. It was the only thing that made sense.

His Aunt tried to stand, but stumbled awkwardly, falling back unto her knees.

“I mean you no harm, my lady,” the Prince said gently and offered his hand to her. “This madness was a result of my father’s paranoid mind. Be rest-assured. You are safe now.”

His Aunt grew utterly still, eyeing the Prince from head to toe as well as the men he had brought with him. They all looked as if they had taken part in the fight. One was lean and dark-haired, a stoic expression plastered on his face. The other was short and stocky, disheveled blond hair falling into his blue eyes.

“Safe?” his Aunt asked in obvious distress, her voice laced with a hint mockery. “These men you killed abducted me in broad daylight! Your father’s men!”

“I am aware,” the Prince said in an apologetic tone. “Are you well?”

“As you can see….I am not well,” she told him curtly and took his hand, to pull herself back to her feet. Her face looked incredibly thin and above her head she sported a deep purple bruise. She shuddered visibly as she jerked her head at her tattered dress. ”Well, at least now the question of a marriage is obsolete. Who would want to wed a spoiled bride?”

It was only then that Bran saw the dried blood between her legs.

The Prince’s gaze fell, pain visible on his face as he quickly pulled the crimson cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around his Aunt’s trembling form.

“I would,” he whispered and dropped his head in  reverence. “If you would have me?”

His Aunt stared back at him with a strange softness.

“The lusty fool who did it was quite clumsy,” she avoided the topic. “But I need to see a Maester. I also have need of moon tea. Then, I want to go home.”

The Prince shook his head, the silver hair fluttering around him like soft feathers.

“I fear it is not as easy as you think, my Lady,” the Prince explained to his Aunt. “By saving you I made an enemy of my King. I can no longer return to court. And you, my Lady cannot go home. At least not, until my father wrath has calmed.”

“What do I care about the King?” his Aunt asked, all softness gone from her face. “We should go to Riverrun. My father would thank you for your efforts, your Grace.  I am sure Lord Hoster would welcome you with open arms.”

“I think it is more likely that they won’t believe me, my Lady,” Prince Rhaegar replied. “These are dangerous times for house Targaryen and I must think of my mother and brother who are still in the hands of the King. If I go to your father, the King might see it as an act of treason. You saw yourself what the King’s madness made him do. He had you abducted, because he found out about your mummery at the tourney. I know my father better than anyone. Best is, to leave him be until he has calmed. Then, I shall come forward and explain everything to your father. My offer also stands. In fact, it would make things much easier for me. At least, that way we could conceal the misfortune that befell you, my Lady.”

“I do not understand you,” his Aunt said. “Why would you want to marry me? Why?”

“Because you bewitched me,” the Prince replied longingly and bridge the distance, covering her hand with his. “Because my heart burns with admiration and love for you. Isn’t that reason enough?”

Bran felt oddly out of place. It felt as if he was in one of Sansa’s sad songs of lost love and chivalry.

Yet, strangely enough Bran anticipated his Aunt’s answer like a man in the desert thirsting for water.

“I don’t…,” his Aunt stuttered and averted her gaze. “I don’t know.”

“We could be happy,” the Prince added sweetly. “I shan’t mind a wife carrying a sword. In fact, I would appreciate it. Not all Taragryen women were gentle-hearted ladies. Visenya Targaryen and Alyssa Targaryen both carried swords. I see no reason why you shouldn’t do the same.”

His Aunt’s eyes widened. They were pale and round like moonstones.

“And your wife? She won’t mind?”

“Targaryens have taken two wives before,” Prince Rhaegar insisted. “I wed Elia under the Faith of the Seven and I shall wed you under your own gods. We could go the Island of Faces. Close by, is the Quiet Isle. The brothers there are well-versed in the arts of healing. They shall wash away all your fears, my Lady.”

 At last, her Aunt nodded her head, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips.

“I would like that. I would like to see a weirwood tree. That would help to calm my mind.”

The Prince smiled. It looked as if a candle had been lit as he touched his Aunt’s cheek.

“A weirwood tree you shall have…,” the Prince promised and leaned closer to place a kiss on his Aunt’s brow, the vision growing distant and blurred.

Bran longed to see more, but when he opened his eyes he found himself back in the cave.

Meera was no longer sobbing, but asleep, her head resting on the roots of the weirwood tree.

“Why did you show me these visions?” Bran asked Lord Brynden. “Why show me such lies?”

“These are not lies,” Lord Brynden replied. “These are memories. Only men tell lies, but the memories of the weirwoods are unblemished by time and ill-intent.”

“But they say that Prince Rhaegar abducted my Aunt,” Bran insisted. “My Lord Father wouldn’t lie to me.”

“He lied because he wanted to protect the boy Jon Snow,” Lord Brynden countered. “He is the result of Prince Rhaegar’s and Lyanna Stark’s marriage. Robert Baratheon would have murdered him had he known and your father knew that.”

Bran shook his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Jon is my brother! He has to be! He…,” Bran stuttered, when he realized that he had woken Meera, his voice faltered.

“He was never your brother,” Lord Brynden insisted. “He is your cousin and my kinsman. He is also the results of my efforts to prevent our assured destruction by our common enemy.”

Bran pulled himself up, dirt and roots pulling on his clothes as he searched for Lord Brynden’s single red eye.

“Stop giving me these riddles,” Bran complained. “Speak plainly and tell me what Jon has to do with all this?”

“The truth is, we never truly defeated the Others,” Lord Brynden explained. “We, the Children of the Forest and your ancestors, made a pact with the Great Other, the leader of the Others. Your ancestor promised them a regular sacrifice: A child of greenseer blood to be given to the Others according to their pleasure. Over the years these sacrifices  turned into a tradition and the honored victims were often the by-blows of the Stark Kings. Thus, bastards were sacrificed to keep the Others at bay. Well, that was until Queen Alysanne came North and insisted upon abolishing this tradition. In time, the tradition became forgotten and the Others had to rely on others to provide them with fresh blood. The Wildlings and this Craster both sacrificed their children to the Great Other, yet none of these babes were enough to satisfy the Great Other’s needs for powerful blood. The boy Jon Snow was meant to be the ultimate sacrifice. A child of ice and fire, an offering the Great Other wouldn’t have been able to refuse.”

Bran could neither speak nor move. Shock held him tightly in his grasp.

Meera who had not beheld the same visions as he was holding unto his arm, her eyes fixed on the red eye.

“I understand your anger, my boy,” Lord Brynden explained softly like a summer breeze. “But you ought to rejoice.  Jon Snow is now no longer of use to me. Only a babe can serve. A replacement.”

“A replacement?” Bran asked, his voice strained and distant to his ears. “Who?”

“A Prince...A Prince of Ice and Fire."

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is called lies for a reason. People tell lies all of the time or omit truths.
> 
> Bloodraven or Lord Brynden or whatever you want to call him is one of them. As old Nan says...I think it is her whos says it. All crows are liars. So, please don't take everything at face value what he says. He has his own motives, not all of them selfless.
> 
> As for Bran, he is just a tool, a little boy easily fooled.
> 
> And no: Rhaegar honestly thought he was creating some promised prince who would save humanity. He didn't know anything about sacrifices. His motivation was a mixture of infatuation and prophecy.
> 
> As misguided as he was, he part of it can be blamed on Bloodraven who was basically torturing him with visions since he was a young kid.
> 
> Well, greenseers are more than just people who can see in the future. They can actually influence the mind of people or better said their dreams. They are a bit like the guys in Inception, but only a very powerful greenseer can do this stuff. Bran is basically an apprentice.
> 
> And there are other ways to avert destruction by the Others.


	59. Once more unto the Breach

**The Imp**

“How are we going to defend the city?” Ser Barristan had asked what everyone had been asking themselves since Victarion Greyjoy had brought the news of the approaching Volanteen Fleet.

Of course, the old knight hadn’t addressed the question at Tyrion. To him he was he enemy and if his Queen hadn’t allowed him to roam free, the old knight would have most likely locked him up or taken his head.

Thus, he would have joined Cersei and his Lord father much earlier than expected. Now, Tyrion was beginning to think that such a fate would have been kinder than what he would suffer at the hands of the slavers. In truth, he knew not much about these slavers, but if Volantis had manned more than five-hundred ships they must hold a deep grudge against the Dragon Queen.

As he watched the other men across the table, he wondered what these slavers would do with a dwarf like him. His arms and legs were too short to do any useful work, his ugly face made the work of a pillow slave impossible and beyond basic grammar he spoke not much High Valyrian, the language common among the nobility of these lands. He was well-read, but nobody would employ him as a house slave to teach his children High Valyrian grammar.

_Perhaps I could be a juggler. Uncle Gerion taught me all he knew. I am sure these slavers would enjoy a good juggler._

“I suggest placing the Unsullied at the western walls. That’s where they will land with their ships,” Greyworm explained and pointed his finger at the map spread over the gilded table.

“The western walls allow a good overview over the sea shore,” Daario added. “The best place to put place our archers.”

“I shall add my archers to yours,” the Tattered Prince agreed and stroked his white beard. “But we shouldn’t neglect the other walls.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Greyworm, the leader of the Unsullied, his inky gaze narrowed in concentration. “Perhaps you are right. We ought to split the Unsullied equally and place them on the walls close to all four gates.”

“Add to that the men of the Stormcrows and the Windblown and we have roughly a three-thousand men at each gate,” Ser Barristan summed up their strength as he leaned on the table, his blue eyes wandering once more over the map before him.

Tyrion had known Ser Barristan for a long time, but these days he was finally starting to look his age. His face looked thin and his blue eyes were underlined by dark cringes. It was easy to see that he didn’t enjoy his position as Hand of the Queen.

This also showed in his handling of Prince Aegon. Tyrion had only overheard bits and pieces from the Queen’s handmaids and servants, namely that Prince Aegon had tried to mount one of the dragons and Ser Barristan had put him under guard. A true Hand would have cut off the boy’s head and be done with it, but then Ser Barristan must have  been torn on how to handle Rhaegar Targaryen’s supposed son.

Truly, it had been a surprise to find Ser Barristan in the Dragon Queen’s entourage. Judging Princess Daenerys Targaryen solely on the rumors he had heard of her, he would have expected her to be more blood-thirsty, but it seemed Tyrion had been wrong again. Someone blood-thirsty would have fed that Prince to her dragon or would have executed Ser Barristan for his treachery. It had also surprised him that the Dragon Queen was keeping Jon Snow’s bed warm or was it the other way around? Tyrion couldn’t say. The boy had changed so much since he had escorted him to the Wall.

Jon Snow still had a certain amount of sullenness about him, but it seemed he had finally reached a certain amount of maturity that allowed him to perceive the world in a different light. Well, that he was in fact the by-blow of a Targaryen Prince might help, though Tyrion was still unsure what the lords of Westeros would think about this second marriage. Dorne would certainly not approve, but Dorne was negligible in the grand shame of things. More interesting would be to see the reactions of the Reach or Robb Stark himself. Would he support his cousin over Stannis Baratheon? Tyrion couldn’t say. He had been too long away from Westeros to make such judgements.

“What about your men?” Daario Naharis asked Victarion Greyjoy. “Lord Commander of the Iron Fleet, isn’t it? You came to court the Queen. Sitting back won’t impress her.”

Tyrion lifted his head with renewed interest, watching the two men closely.

Victarion Greyjoy was a bull-chested man and carried himself with a calm demeanor that commanded respect. Daario stood just as tall, but his appearance reminded Tyrion of a mummer who had put on too colorful clothing. He certainly made a striking impression, but most in Westeros would think him a clown.

“I am not frightened of slave soldiers,” Victarion Greyjoy replied coldly. “I shall join your men at the western gate. My axe is already thirsting for blood.”

“Then, why did you bring your pretty ships?” Daario asked teasingly and cocked his eyebrow. “Did you think they would wet the Queen’s cunt?”

“That is enough, Daario Naharis!” Greyworm grumbled stiffly and tapped his spear on the ground, causing Ser Barristan to lift his head. He looked as if he hadn’t even heard their prick-waving exchange. It made Tyrion wonder if the Dragon Queen had also taken the blue-bearded sellsword to her bed.  Mayhaps she was more like Cersei than he thought. Well, she was fucking her nephew, but that could be called a common thing among Targaryens.

“I am not a man who runs away from battle, sellsword,” Victarion Greyjoy replied as his hand brushed over his axe. “But I am no mad man who would sacrifice his brave men unnecessarily.”

“Of course not,” Ser Barristan agreed, his voice laced with obvious displeasure. “Lord Captain Victarion’s men will serve us better at the walls, which would give us roughly four-thousand men at each gate.”

“And with Ben Plumm as our reserve we should be able to hold out a siege for at least several weeks if not moons. By then, our Dragon Queen has hopefully returned. We have need of her dragons.”

“Your Queen will return soon,” Moqorro told them, the first thing he had said in days. Tyrion didn’t know what to make of the Red Priest. There was something mad about his constant silence.

“Queen Daenerys will return in good time,” Ser Barristan agreed. “Until then we must hold the city. Meereen’s walls are tall and strong. The enemy won’t have easy play.”

“Have you ever heard of wildfire?” Tyrion asked the Red Priest. “I once employed it quite successfully against an enemy fleet, though I admit…in the end it couldn’t turn the tide of battle in my favor. Stannis Baratheon’s iron determination was too strong.”

“Wildfire is a godless substance,” the Red Priest explained and stepped towards the table, his crimson robes billowing behind him like raging flames. “We also call it ‘impure fire’.  Only a fool would play with it, dwarf.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but to chuckle. “Some say that madness is just a different word for greatness. Well, I was just recalling that one your followers helped King Stannis to his crown. They were certain rumors that say that King Stannis’ Red Priestess called upon a shadow that slew his brother in his sleep.”

“I have heard of her,” the Red Priest hissed, his black eyes wide burning with rage. “This woman is a misguided creature and not one of us. She is a shadow binder form Asshai.”

“But is it possible?” Tyrion asked. “It is possible to call upon such a creature?”

The Red Priest gave a hesitant nod. “It is possible, but he who calls upon the shadow would have to pay a hefty price for such a gift.”

“A price?” Ser Barristan asked with open contempt. “What price would one have to pay for such an ‘ungodly gift’.”

“He would have to give up a part of his lifeforce,” Moqorro explained as if he was talking about the weather. “Magic always demands a price. It does not work like in those mummers shows for children were the sorcerer can call upon his powers at will. Such a sacrifice I spoke of can be given in different forms and shapes, but there is no way around it. A sacrifice is always needed.”

“I understand,” Tyrion said and smiled at the Red Priest. “Well, and what sacrifice would be needed to work a bit of your magic for us?”

The Red Priest glowered at Tyrion, who shuddered in turn. There was something piercing about his black gaze that only helped to add to man’s fearsome appearance. His black skin was dark as sooth, his pale mane and his colorful tattoos made him look almost like a demon from a scary tale for children.

“I could work my magic for you, but no wildfire,” the Red Priest replied. “I can give you something less unpredictable.”

“And the price?” Ser Barristan asked mistrustfully.

“I need at least hundred Lysean boys or girls.”

“No, men or slave girl under my protection will die for your magic, Priest,” Greyworm protested vehemently. Ser Barristan held him back by patting his shoulder.

“They won’t die. All I need is some of their blood. A cup from each should be enough.”

“Why Lysean boys or girls?” Daario asked in obvious confusion, but his voice laced with mockery. “Is there something magical about the blood of a Lysean pillow girl?”

“That only shows that you are fool,” Victarion Greyjoy taunted Daario Naharis. “It is well-known that the Targaryens used Lys as their personal pillow house. The blood of old Valyria can be found in these boys and girls. That is the reason you need their blood, isn’t it, Priest?”

“The blood of the Valyrians was powerful indeed,” the Red Priest confirmed in a guarded tone. “They bound the dragons to their will with blood magic and spells long forgotten. That is why the bred with each other…to keep the bloodline pure. There are few of pure Valyrian blood left in this world. Yet, for this simple magic trick even diluted blood will serve its purpose.”

At first, Ser Barristan looked as if he wanted to refuse the Red Priest, but then nodded his head in agreement.

“Very well,” the old knight said and looked directly at the Red Priest. “But no harm will come to these men and women.”

The Priest lowered his head in understanding. “No harm shall come to them.”

Tyrion was curious to see what the Red Priest could do, but it didn’t help to ease his fears.

And it wasn’t just the coming battle that occupied his mind. Tyrion had yet to make up his mind about his future allegiance…

He doubted that Lord Varys had intended for him to stay with the Dragon Queen, but now that he had seen the dragons with his own eyes, he was glad for it. Prince Aegon had been bold, but boldness was also a word for ‘foolishness’ as his Lord Father used to say.

Tyrion was no coward. He had faced his own share of fights in the past, had survived the sacking of King’s Landing and had made it here to Meereen, but he still didn’t want to give up his dream of dying of old age and with a pretty whore in his bed. Joining Daenerys Targaryen would certainly be the best choice to take the throne, but then he also had to think of Jaime. Tyrion doubted his prideful brother bend the knee without a fight and he doubted that the Dragon Queen would be prepared to forget the fact that his brother had slain her father.

_I could tell her the truth about King Aerys’ wildfire_ , he mused and walked along the balcony, staring down at the city. A starry sky spread over his head and a gentle breeze touched his skin. The city looked peaceful, but soon the enemy would come knocking at their doors.

“You are still awake,” a soft voice caused him to turn around. Sansa looked as lost as him, the foreign silks concealing her body, giving her an ethereal appearance. She was a pretty girl, but even now she avoided looking at his ugly face. “Is the war council over?”

“The war council is over,” Tyrion confirmed and graced her with a smile. “I suppose we will soon have to face another battle together, my Lady.”

Sansa Stark gave him a hesitant smile and drew closer, her blue eyes darting to the sea of stars.

“It can’t be worse than to be wed to Joffrey,” she jested. “And I do trust Ser Barristan.”

“Ah, I shouldn’t be surprised, my Lady,” Tyrion feigned a hurt ego. “I could never compare with Ser Barristan the Bold. Well, I tried my best at Blackwater.”

Sansa Stark remained silent. The expression on her face told him more than a thousand words.

“You enjoyed my family’s demise, didn’t you, my Lady?”

Sansa paled a little, her mouth changing to a thin line.

“I am not grieving for Joff and your sister. Tommen and Myrcella I liked.”

“Myrcella could still be alive,” Tyrion said and shrugged his shoulders. “At least, I hope so.”

“Jon would never harm a child,” Sansa assured him quickly. “Mayhaps a compromise can be found.”

Tyrion laughed. The girl had learned much, but at times she was still too innocent for this world.

“I do not fear Jon Snow. I fear what the Dornish will do once they have King Aegon Targaryen knocking at their doors.”

Sansa swallowed hard and gave him a knowing look.

“At least, he didn’t take the dragon. A Second Dance is the last we need. I also fear for Robb.”

“We all ought to be afraid,” Tyrion agreed and lifted his hand to squeeze her arm. She tensed, but she accepted thee gesture. “I fear another war is brewing.”

_I will have need of allies_ , Tyrion knew. _But always keep all your options open! Isn’t that what you always said, Lord Father? Well, I shall head your advice._

_All bets are still open. Let’s see what the future brings._

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the battle for Meereen and then a longish wrap-up chapter for the Meereen plot.


	60. The Dark Flame

**The Dark Flame**

Moqorro watched calmly as the Old Tiger’s war elephant stamped towards the city gates. The elephant was a massive beast of pale skin, the barge resting atop his back made of white cedar wood and beautiful gilded paintings. Snarling tigers glittered in the midday sun like burnished copper.

With a loud groan the gates opened and Moqorro emerged with the old knight, the Dragon Queen’s Hand, a good hundred Unsullied marching at their back. The city walls were manned to the brim, with archers and men ready to pour hot oil and stones at the enemy. Moqorro had also kept his promise to the dwarf. Two hundred Lysean had given their lifeblood for this magic trick.

The massive animal stopped, the slave soldiers bringing forth a wooden ladder that allowed the Old Tiger to descend from his bark of white cedar.

The Old Tiger was, despite his age, a man of tall stature, a fair complexion, shapely limps, a somewhat full face and keen black eyes. His armor made him look more impressive than he was. It was made of scaled copper, a glimmering golden helmet in the form of tiger resting atop his head and decorated with a crimson plume. Around his shoulders he wore a striped cloak of white-and-crimson. On his belt he wore the famous blade of his family, a curved blade, commonly called the Tiger’s Fang with a bright ruby embedded in the hilt of his sword.

Most men would have been impressed by the Old Tiger’s appearance, but Moqorro was not so easily fooled. Outwardly, he tried to appear a terrifying warlord, but in truth he was an old man who was chasing old glories and didn’t see the thousands of enemies surrounding him.

“Who comes before me to parley?” Moqorro demanded to know and sat down in the cushioned seat brought forth by eight twenty slaves. The captains directing his armies followed his litter. They all wore crimson cloaks, the sigils of their families displayed on their helmets and arms.

“Ser Barristan Selmy, Hand of the Queen,” the old knight introduced himself. He was older than the Old Tiger, but not fool. He was a man who had learned his lessons of humility, but the Old Tiger was not such a man. He was a man dripping with self-importance and Moquorro would use that against him.

“And I am Moqorro, humble servant to the High Priest Benarro. I think you two are old friends, isn’t that so?” Moqorro asked, his voice laced with mockery. ”He remembers your last raid on his temple.”

The Old Tiger’s face changed to a grimace of disgust as has his dark eyes searched Moqorro’s face.

“The Fiery Hand is a pest,” the Old Tiger hissed. “I ought to have you all butchered. Mayhaps I shall do so when I am done with the Dragon Whore and her horde of disobedient slaves. Why is she not here? Is she hiding away?”

Moqorro smiled and raised his voice as he swept his gaze over the slave soldiers that had followed after the Old Tiger’s elephant like a victory procession. “She will return soon enough. For the time being, our company must suffice.”

Then, he angled his head to speak directly to the slave soldiers. “Let it be known that this fight, if fought, shall be a butchery for both sides. Slaves fighting against slaves. Brothers against brothers. Remember your faith, my children, and do not fight your own brothers that are bound to you by the same faith. I know what they have said to you. The Dragon Queen is your enemy. She brings death and destruction where she goes, but these are vile lies! Daenerys Targaryen is Azor Ahai reborn, the ancient hero who freed the world from the dark sorcery of  the Bloodstone Emperor.  The Masters are the evil one’s tools! They are trying to deceive you! Do not listen to them! Let R’hllor light of truth burn brightly!”

“These men here are no cowards!” the Old Tiger declared proudly, a smile curling on his thin lips. “They feel honored to die beneath my banner! Show them!”

The rattling of shields and spears filled the air, but Moqorro could see in their hearts. These men were not Unsullied. These were men of flesh and blood, men who had sought refuge in the Faith of the one true god to find a little bit of light in a world of darkness.

And Moqorro had seeded doubt into their hearts. The Old Tiger might be blind to it. All they needed was a fire to remind them of their faith.

With a smile Moqorro turned to the old knight.

“We are done here, Ser Barristan,” he said and turned around.

The old knight nodded his head and unsheathed his blade, his blue eyes burning with the spirit of a true warrior.

“We shall have war if you do not leave by the morrow!”

With these words they left, leaving the Old Tiger to decide on his future actions.

By sunset the attacks began. The sound of war drums rang loudly as men tried to scale the walls and men brought forth rams to open the barred gates.

Moqorro had taken his position atop the western gates, thousands of archers surrounding him. Few of them were followers of the one true god, but by the time the sun would sink in the west they would see his gods power.

“They will try to scale the walls and burst through our doors while bringing their siege weapons into position,” he heard the old knight’s commanding voice echoing over the bastions of Meereen. The Unsullied Commander Greyworm, the leader of the Stormcrows Daario Naharis and the leader of the Windblown followed his example, their voices mixing with the sound of war drums.

The old knight had banished the dwarf from his presence, but Moqorro didn’t mind his presence. A capable mind resided behind these ugly features. A sharp mind that had sparked Moqorro’s idea.

“Those who work against the will of the one true god will perish before the sun sinks in the west,” Moqorro replied calmly and watched as they enemy brought their ladders into position. Most were toppled before they could even make it half the way.

The men with the rams proved much more dangerous, for they protected themselves against the constant drizzle of arrows with wooden shields that gave them the appearance of a turtle.

The Unsullied countered their attack with hot oil and a clatter of stones, but it was not enough to prevent them from trying again.

By the time, they were trying again the first trebuchets had been brought in place. The dwarf clung to his robe as the first stones shattered against the colorful walls of Meereen, dust blurring their sight. It was like standing at the prow of a ship, the storm whipping around his face.

Yet, Moqorro felt no fear. And why should he? A man with the one true god  in his heart had nothing to fear. Not even death.

The cries of men echoed in his ears and he saw the fear in their eyes.

_Fools. There was nothing to fear._

The sellwords Daario Naharis gave him a cold look after Moqorro had ordered to bring the golden vessels with the blood and the torches to bring forth the holy flames of R’hllor.

“This better work, Red Priest,” he said and touched his torch in the golden vessel. “Or you will be the first one to be trampled by this pretty elephant.”

“Have trust,” Moqorro had replied with a smile and had watched how Victarion Greyjoy’s men had prevented another assault. This Ironborn man was bred for war and butchery, so much Moqorro had seen during their first meeting, but he was a fool, easily led astray by the dark forces that must have taken possession of his mad brother. Yet, there was nothing Moqorro could do about that. He had to serve Azor Ahai. That was their only chance to see the dawn.

“Trust is for fools,” Daario Naharis replied and dipped his arrow into the golden vessel filled with raging flames. They were red in the middle and black on the outside. Moqorro was satisfied with his work.

“Trust is the greatest gift,” Moqorro replied, lifted his hands to the sky and raised his voice.  “Let them behold R’hllor’s might!”

Within the blink of a moment, a hundred flaming arrows came down at the enemy below.

Another volley was unleashed, but Moqorro’s attention was directed elsewhere. He beheld with amusement how these fools stirred the flames to greater strength. When they tried to put out the flames with their cloaks, the flames grew higher and higher. By the time, they had brought muddy water from the river, the flames had halted the enemies’ approach completely, for when the fools poured water unto the flames, an explosion like rolling thunder made the walls of Meereen shake.

“Gods be good!” the dwarf had exclaimed suddenly, his face unnaturally pale. “What was that?”

“The might of R’hllor!” Moquorro declared and shouted down at the slaves who had tried to scale the walls. “Behold his power and will!”

The slaves must have heard him, for some stopped in their tracks, their eyes fixed at the ever-growing flames.

The sellsword Daario Naharis unleashed another volley of arrows on one of the siege towers and repeated this action until four of them stood aflame, burning like four rods of fire.

Again, the cries of dying men filled his ears, but he had accomplished his goal.

The slaves who had been tasked with scaling the walls, were fleeing like rabbits before a wild beast. The fires had stirred the doubt in their hearts to new heights.

No shouting or war drums could make the frightened slave soldiers return to their task.

 “What is happening?” the old knight inquired after he had joined them. “Why did they retreat?”

“They have seen their folly,” Moqorro explained with a smile. “Their resolve is broken.”

“Their ships are still blocking the shore and the river. We are locked up. I am sure they prepared well for this siege,” the old knight countered.

Moqorro could only laugh and sat down at the edge of the stones. He had stood all evening, the heat of the Meereenese sky burning down at him, but now he decided he could allow himself some rest.

“Do not fret, old man. I promised the return of your Queen. Now sharpen your blade and attack the camp. The slaves will flock to your banners. I saw it in the flames,” Moqorro explained and shielded his gaze from the bright sun as he took in the plumes of smoke rising from the enemy camp.

It seemed the fires of rebellion had already begun to stir.

“I hope you are right, Priest,” the old knight’s voice echoed in his ears.

Moqorro did not answer, his gaze fixed on the horizon, a single bright star glimmering like a diamond on an inky cloth spread over the sky.

More and more stars appeared, the sky bleeding and blurred by the smoke.

The old knight was seated on a white horse as he led the Unsullied, the sellswords and the Ironborn to battle.

The clamor of battle was distant to Moqorro’s ears as he continued to observe the sky and the dwarf continued to stand vigil next to him.

When a shadow passed over their heads they looked up at the same time.

Moqorro felt the rush of excitement in every pore of his body, as the massive black dragon unleashed his black flames unto the galleys anchored close to the shore. Hot flames were feasting on the wood when two more dragons joined the black beast, dancing around each other like cloth dragons in a mummer’s show.

The green one unleashed a current of red flames at the ships. The men that had remained on jumped into the water, their shrieking cries filling Moqorro’s heart with confidence as did the screams of the horse men attacking the enemy camp from the rear.

At last, the pale dragon appeared, who had built his lair in one of the abandoned pyramids. His wings glittered like molten silver as he descended upon a war galley, setting aflame the mast and tearing apart men in his wake.

Moqorro’s heart laughed. Flames of black, gold and red danced, cleansing the world of evil.

All his hopes and dreams had come true.

Azor Ahai had finally come.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: finally, Dany.


	61. Fire and Blood

**Daenerys**

The plaza was crowded with too many people, the bright beams of sunlight reflected back at her from Ser Barristan’s polished armor, a fresh white cloak draped over his shoulders. Missandei stood next to him, garbed in a blue dress and her slippers glittering. Irri and Jhiqui were not far, dressed in the Dothraki fashion: leggings, sandals and painted vests.

Not much was left of the council she had built after concurring Meereen. Reznak was dead and the Shavepate and the Green Grace had turned out to be traitors. Hizdahr was also a traitor, but she had never really trusted him.

The Shavepate had refused to answer her demands for an explanation, no matter how often she had visited him. Yet, she still had to dispense justice.

It was a task she disliked.

 _It must be done_ , Jon had told her. _Or they will never fear you_.

Dany hadn’t liked the sound of that, even if it had come from Jon’s lips. She had never wanted her subjects to fear her, but to love her.

That had been a folly. She knew that now. The Masters would never love her, no matter how often she tried to make peace with them.

The last betrayal was proof for that.

Aegon’s betrayal were another matter, but there was nothing she could do about it now. He had run off to Westeros to start his conquest.

 _I should have never trusted him_. _Just as my brother should have never trusted the Magister._

 _I should have never spoken to Prince Aegon without consulting you_ , Ser Barristan had asked for her forgiveness in private.

It was a request she hadn’t been able to refuse. She had lost to many allies and she would have need of Ser Barristan the Bold when she returned to Westeros.

Thus, she had kissed his cheek and had forgiven him for his headless actions. Now she was here, playing the conqueror when she was but a girl.

 _Aegon is just a boy_ , she reminded herself and braced herself for the coming task. _The only thing that makes him more eligible for the crown is his cock._

Exhaling deeply, she swept her gaze over the crowd. Most were slaves and the rest were former slavers. Not all of them had betrayed her,  but Dany had insisted that all of them would be there to see her dispense justice.

The Shavepate glowered as always as Greyworm and a handful of Unsullied had him dragged before her. Hizdahr was not far, his face as pale as a sheet as he noticed Drogon’s presence.

Her loyal child sat behind her, his large spiked tale wound around his body and his ruby eyes eying the Shavepate and Hizdahr.

Drogon must have sensed her discomfort, for he opened his jaw, hot plumes of smoke rising from his mouth and nostrils. She had sometimes dreamed of doing this to the usurper and to Tywin Lannister. It had been her only outlet for the feelings locked deep inside her heart, but now everything was different. She had heard of her father’s madness and how he had burned his enemies to scare them into submission.

 _I would be like my father_ , she had told Jon, who had disagreed with her.

_Aegon the Conqueror did it. He burned Harrenhall to demonstrate his power. Like Aegon they must fear you or they will never stop betraying you._

Dany swallowed hard as she climbed down the steps, seeking the Shavepate’s face.

“Why did you do it? Give me a reason to spare you.”

It was all a mummery, but by doing this, nobody could say later that she hadn’t given the Shavepate a chance to explain himself.

The Shavepate’s eyes widened, when he saw Drogon’s jaw opening and closing, puffs of black smoke rising into the air.

It was the first time she saw fear in the Shavepate’s dark eyes. He had always been brutish and bloody, but that is why she had valued him. He had done what needed to be done. Even Jon had trusted him.

“I only did what was necessary,” the Shavepate explained and swallowed hard. “All I did was for Meereen and its people.”

“You tried to murder me,” she replied, displeased to see so little repentance. “I gave you my trust and you tried to murder me and served my enemies.”

The Shavepate’s laugh was hollow.

“Yes, I tried to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I was loyal to your enemy. As I said before…all I did was for Meereen and the people you saved, the very people you wanted to abandon to win your pretty crown. You won at Yunkai, but then I asked myself? How many Unsullied will she leave here in Meereen to protect us against the enemies that are still lingering out there. Not many, I realized and that is why I did what I did. By getting rid of you the Unsullied would have remained in Meereen. Then, I could have taken power and mayhaps I could have even found a compromise to co-exist with the remaining Masters. Hizdahr and the Green Grace are creatures I despise with every fiber of my heart, but they have influence beyond Meereen. I would have _needed_ their influence to protect Meereen.”

Dany felt like slapped, rage and guilt washing over her.

“I never intended to take all Unsullied with me,” she defended herself. “How could you think that I would leave my people without protection?”

The Shavepate glowered at her again.

“How could I not? You never told me any of your plans. And you couldn’t even control your dragons nor did you make any attempt to use them. For me you were a girl playing with fire. You think the world will simply bow down to your whims, but that is not so. Let me give you one last advice, your Worship. Your subjects must fear you. To lay down laws without a sword to enforce them is as pointless as putting a priest in charge of a brothel. Now do what you must do. I shan’t hate you. Call for your beast.”

Dany had listened in tense silence, her heart hammering wildly against her chest.

“You want me to die?” she asked, her voice faltering.

The Shavepate shook his head.

“I don’t want to die, but I won’t beg for mercy. That is not my way. And if I have to die then it should at least serve a purpose. Show them what happens to traitors and then these fools will finally fear you as it should be.”

Dany was roused by Drogon’s roar. She bit her lips and angled her head to look at Jon.

His face was unreadable, but he was nodding his head.

It was the final push she needed.

She didn’t have to turn around to know that Drogon’s head was looming over her. His hot breath was brushing her neck and shoulders.

She felt as if she was standing in front of a burning hearth.

And like a soft breeze, the words left her lips.

“Dracarys!”

Dany forced herself to look, bile rising up inside her throat, but it had nothing to do with her daily morning sickness. She trembled, fisting the green skirt of her dress. For a brief moment, she had only stared at her sandals, but she had still seen enough of the black carcass that been left by Drogon’s flames to haunt her dreams, before her dragon had devoured the rest with two or three bites.

Hizdahr was trembling like a leaf shaken by the wind.

He, who had laughed about the fighters in the pit, was afraid.

The Shavepate had been a man with whom she had not always agreed, but who had always stood up for his believes. At least, for that she could respect him, but Hizdhar was a coward of the lowest sort.

Yet, she wouldn’t kill him.

“Rise Hizdahr zo Loraq,” she told him in her queenly voice. “Rise and face your punishment like a man.”

He trembled as he rose to his feet.

Drogon’s head loomed over her shoulder and made her look taller than she was, but she touched his jaw and made him lower his head.

Rivers of sweat were pouring down Hizdahr’s temples.

“You won’t die to today,” she told him and smiled. “No, I have a task for you. An important task.”

Hizdahr gave her a disbelieving look and lowered his head in reverence.

“Thank you, your Worship! Thank you! Thank you!”

“Be silent. The only reason I am allowing you to live is the fact that you are man of influence. I expect of you to make use of this influence to re-establish trade relationships with the other Free Cities. Furthermore, I want you to represent your king at the council I planning to install,” Dany explained and raised her voice. “Nobody will be able to say that I didn’t give them a voice. Yet, no master will stand about the other members of this council. My trusted friend Missandei and the Unsullied will make sure of it. Do you accept this task?”

Hizdahr nodded his head in understanding.

“I do…I do.”

“I think so too,” Dany replied overly sweet and patted Drogon’s head. “But to be sure: Are you aware what another betrayal would mean for you?”

He nodded his head as he stared at Drogon.

“I do…I do,” he stuttered. He looked as if he was about to piss himself.

The sight gave her a warm feeling of satisfaction, but the Shavepate’s execution had left a sour taste in her mouth.

“What is it, Khaleesi?” Irri asked as she braided Dany’s wet hair. “Why so sad?”

“She is feeling sickly, silly duck,” Jhiqui chided her gently. “You know why.”

Dany knew why. It was true what Lady Lyanna had suspected. She was indeed with child.

The one of the blue graces at the Temple of Graces had confirmed it to her, though that hadn’t been the real reason she had gone there.

It had been a gruesome task that had brought her there in  the first place.

Dany had paid witness to the Green Grace’s death. She could have had her executed, but she had chosen a different path. The Green Grace was no ordinary person and thus Dany had allowed her to commit honorable suicide. To the people of Meereen the Green Grace had passed away in her sleep. It was more than she had deserved.

Even so, her death had left a bitter taste in Dany’s mouth. For a while, she hadn’t even been able to cherish the happy news she had received.

That she had yet to tell Jon about occupied her mind as well. And her supposed nephew Aegon…

 _First I shall speak to Illyrio_ , she reminded herself and forced a smile over her lips. _Then I will decide._

“I am well,” Dany assured them at last and realized that Missandei was staring at her, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Dany sighed, realizing how young her little scribe was. 

 _I am going to miss her dearly_ , she thought sadly and waved her hand at her little scribe, indicating for her to come closer.

“Once I have taken the crown I am going to call you to Westeros,” Dany told her and kissed her cheek. “Or would you prefer to go home to Naath?”

The girl shook her head. “My brother is here in Meereen. I want to stay with him.”

Dany nodded her head in understanding.

She had Jon, but at times she still wondered what it would have been like to have a brother like Missandei had.

Viserys had treated her better when she was a little girl, but he had always seen her more as his possession than his sister.

She knew little about Rhaegar beyond what Ser Barristan had told her about him, but she doubted he would have treated her like Viserys. He was a fool who had destroyed their family for love, but that didn’t make him a monster like Viserys, who had sold her like a whore.

As Missandei was helping her dress, Dany was interrupted by Ser Barristan, who had quickly turned around, his voice laced with obvious embarrassment.

Dany was amused by Ser Barristan’s behavior, but she was disappointed that Jon hadn’t come to see her.

She understood that he wanted to spend time with his sister, but there would be little time for privacy in the future.

“What is it, Ser Barristan?”

“Victarion Greyjoy askes for an audience with you, your Grace.”

Dany sighed. The Ironborn man was the last one she wanted to talk too, but this was the second time he had asked for an audience and now that the bloody business has been taken care of she could hardly refuse.

“I shall see him at once,” Dany informed Ser Barristan and donned a shawl around her shoulders. Beneath she wore a green robe and golden slippers. “Send him to the council chamber.”

Her hair was still wet when she stepped into the hall of pink marble. Her throne was there, but she preferred to receive Victarion Greyjoy in a standing position.

“Welcome, Lord Captain Victarion,” Dany greeted him with a polite smile. He knew why he came. Ser Barristan had told her. “I must thank you for coming all this way to Meereen and for helping my men to defend my city. I wish to properly reward you for your bravery.”

If the man was pleased by her answer it didn’t show on his face. He was a grim man, so much she could see.

Proud too, by the way he carried himself. A younger Dany might have allowed herself to be blinded by his rough demeanor, but Ser Barristan had told her much about the Ironborn.

They were not kind of men she wanted to associate herself with.

Well, to refuse a possible allegiance was not something she wanted to do either.

Negotiations were the only way.

“You know what I want,” Victarion Greyjoy replied rather brusquely. ”The old knight must have told you. I want to marry you.”

Dany tried not to blink as she smiled back at him.

“That is a flattering offer,” she told him as politely as possible. “But I have already someone in mind. Yet, that doesn’t mean we cannot work together. I heard your brother is now King of the Iron Islands. Well, I would be prepared to support your claim instead as _Lord of the Iron Islands_. That said, you would receive a proper compensation for the loss of your crown. Your people are raiders, are they not? Well, I shall give you permission to raid my enemies, namely those cities who are still not prepared to accept my new order. Your people will be able to grow fat and happy under my protection. What do you say, Lord Captain?”

Lord Victarion Greyjoy scowled and brushed his hand over his axe.

“I did not come here to receive baubles. I came to find a Queen and bed her. Give me the name of the man you want to wed. I shall make you a widow before you are wedded and bedded. Someone like you needs a proper husband, not a greenlander weakling.

Dany had expected displeasure, but she hadn’t expected such an answer.

Ser Barristan, who was standing at the top of the stairs, looked equally fazed and exchanged a tense look with her.

Dany was glad that Jon was not here or this might have ended in a real fight.

“I am not some piece of meat that can be won in a fight,” Dany told him  icily. “I am a Queen and that is the only offer you will get from me, my Lord. You are welcome to consider it. I shall remain in Meereen till the end of the full moon.”

The answer was a growled “herumph” and gone was the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.

Dany had been sorely disappointment. He could have been her first ally, but now she would have to depend on Robb Stark. His fleet of longships could have served her well, though at least she had been able to salvage good two-hundred galleys from the Volanteen Fleet, enough to transport her troops all the way to Westeros.

The Priest Moqorro had also promised her that the Fiery Hand would join her if she were prepared to sail for Volantis to free the city from its oppressors. Dany had agreed, but not because she believed in his mad ramblings about Azor Azhai come again, but because many of the slave soldiers who had changed sides to her during the Second Siege of Meereen, longed to go home.

Dany wouldn’t deny them this simple pleasure.

All people had need of a home.

Hers would be Dragonstone if she had her will and Jon’s as well, though he would probably insist that Winterfell was his home.

At first, she had wanted to join him and his sister, but then she decided against it.

Instead, she taken supper with Missandei and her handmaids.

This was a matter that ought to be addressed privately.

She had already donned her nightgown when Jon came to join her.

He looked at ease, a smile curling on his lips, as he shrugged off his cloak and boots. His hair looked strange, though. He had cut if off after they had returned to Meereen and now it reached no longer than his chin.

 _I do not want to look like a girl_ , he had justified it, but Dany had always liked his long hair. It was his most handsome feature, though by now she no longer cared about such petty things.

“You look better,” he remarked as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Then, he turned around to look at her. “I heard you had a rather unpleasant audience with the Lord Captain of the Iron Islands? Why did you not call for me?”

“All is well,” Dany assured him with a quick smile and drew closer to place a kiss on his cheek. “The Lord Captain was a bit upset, but nothing serious. I suppose he is going to leave us soon and will return to his kingly brother.”

Jon scowled. “That is unfortunate.”

Dany chuckled and brushed his hair out of his face, preparing herself inwardly.

“I have lied to you,” she said then and averted her gaze, so he couldn’t read her expression. “Will you hear my confession?”

Jon’s eyebrows rose to the top of his head, his dark eyes glittering with amusement.

“Is this some new game for the bedroom?”

Dany couldn’t help but to giggle. She kept laughing, turning away and her eyes wet.

When he leaned closer, she slapped him playfully over the shoulder.

“No, you silly. I really have something to confess. It is a good thing, though. At least, I think so. It should solve some of our problems, but might displease Aegon.”

“Aegon can think whatever he wants,” Jon grumbled. “Now tell me…What is it?”

Dany smiled and exhaled deeply, before she placed her hand on her belly.

“According to the Graces I am with child.”

Jon stared at her dumbly, his jaw slack.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a breathless voice, a smile spreading over his lips, softening his wolfish features.

“I am sure,” she confirmed, biting her lips in an attempt to calm her excitement. “I doubt the Graces would lie to me.”

Jon chuckled shakily and brushed his dark hair out of his face.

“Of course not, but…this is mad,” Jon muttered to himself, his voice laced with excitement. “I didn’t expect that.”

Dany laughed nosily. “You think I did? Well, now we will have to make the best out of it. Are you happy?”

Jon’s dark eyes studied her belly, a trembling smile spreading over his lips.

“How long will it take?” he asked in an uncertain tone. “I mean, I know that it takes nine moons, but I think you know what I am trying to say...”

Dany hadn’t paid much attention to the passing of time when she was carrying Rhaego.

“I know what you mean,” she told him and covered his hand. “It could be a few moons before I start showing. I suppose I will be close to delivery when we reach Westeros or even before that.”

Jon’s nodded his head. “Then, I suppose we will have to wait until we make it back.”

Dany blinked at his forward reply, but she shouldn’t have expected anything less. Jon was no poet, but always very forward in everything he said and did.

Dany smiled.

“Did you just ask me to marry you?”

Jon blushed visibly and touched her sides gently.

“Perhaps.”

She knew he meant, yes. He was obviously teasing her.

Dany chuckled and felt herself growing warm as Jon’s hands wandered beneath the layers of her nightgown.

She returned his kiss with sudden urgency, helping him undress.

Naked as his nameday, he joined her in bed and touched her breasts, first gently, then more firmly.

Her body prickled with anticipation. It had been a while, their exhausting travel through the Dothraki Sea not allowing for such activities.

Gently, he brushed her hair over her shoulder and lay behind her. She tensed a little, unused to this new position. Yet, she trusted Jon well enough to lean into him, their bodies flush against each other.

Soon, his hands were back on her breasts, his lips brushing over her back and shoulders.

Dany shuddered, a pleasant warmth spreading through her body, filling her with a mad yearning.

Leaning into Jon’s form, she used one of her hands to guide him inside her warmth.

“Slow…slow,” she gasped as Jon bit into her shoulder, holding her tight.

When they were finished, she pulled a robe over her shoulders and cleaned herself.

All the while Jon was watching her.

“Enjoy it as long as you can,” she teased him. “Soon I will be as fat as a cow. Drogon might even refused to carry me.”

Jon burst out in laughter. It was such a strange sound to hear him laugh this thoroughly.

“Drogon is growing daily. I doubt it will be much of a problem for him.”

Dany threw her head back and laughed as well.

“Good that you are so enthusiastic, but you have yet to answer my question.”

Jon’s face changed back to its serious expression.

“Aye, I want to marry you, but properly. With a Septon and all.”

Dany laughed, an evil thought entering her mind.

“We ought to invite Aegon as well. That would be amusing.”

Jon smiled, but there was also sadness glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Whether he is my brother or not, I would rather get along with him than to call him my enemy.”

Dany sighed in agreement.

“Me too, but he is not making it easy.”

…


	62. The Red Wolf

**Dacey**

Dacey Mormont stood at the prow of the _Stormwhipper_ , the best and fastest ship in Lord Manderly’s Fleet, when the grey coast of Skagos appeared before her. The land seemed so distant in the ever-moving black waters of the sea and the thick mist concealing the island like a shroud.

They had sailed for two weeks along the east coast of the North, the icy storms hindering their progress at every turn, but now they were finally here.

The weather had finally turned. The sun was showing through the thick fog and the storm had eased. Today was also the first day she had been able to keep down her fast.

Even so, her Lady Mother made no hurry to go ashore. Instead, she had allowed their men to rest and had advised them to keep their weapons close.

Dacey knew why. Skagos was a cursed place full of cannibals who were known to drink the blood of their enemies. That Rickon Stark was hidden on this island was hard to believe, but then her Lady Mother could scarcely refuse Lord Stark’s request.

Her Lady Mother had brought eighty of her best warriors: men with corded muscles and arms as thick as tree trunks. Their scars and their sharpened axes spoke for their strength and Dacey could attest to their abilities both in war and bed. Those Skagosi might be frightening, but the men of Bear Island were not to be trifled with either.

The warmth of the sun greeted them when they set foot on the island.

A long muddy beach stretched as far as the eye could see. They climbed up the cliffy mountains that littered the coast of the island. There, they had left their ship in a natural harbor that had been carved into the island by storm and time.

They had spotted other ships there as well. A merchant ship from the North and several smaller cogs that looked as if they were used for fishing. Dacey had always believed that the Skagosi fed on human flesh, but it seemed that was another misconception. It seemed these Skagosi liked fish just as much as human flesh.

As they moved on, they saw dense forests of pine and ironwood. Distant hills sprawled as far as the eye could see and a sharp wind came blowing from the north. The snowfall and the wind only increased as continued their travel.

They had ridden along a thin winding road until they reached a crossroad, marked by a thick wooden stake and decorated with skulls of animals and humans alike.

The sight didn’t frighten Dacey, but it was not something she would put into her home.

“What is that?” Wulfric asked. He was the youngest among their group and had never left Bear Island until their Lord had called his banners.

“It is meant as a warning,” Ubba explained one of the older warriors. He was as tall as a giant, but his beard had long turned grey. “It also means that we are close to their settlement. have visited Skagos in my youth, but that was thirty years ago. Time eats at a man’s memory, my Lady.”

Her Lady Mother gave a serious nod and kicked her heels in sides of her horse, leading the way. “Then, we should hurry. I do not want to sleep outside. Let’s hope these Skagosi prove friendly enough to provide us with a warm place to sleep.”

“Or they will skin us and drink our blood,” Ubba jested and bared his yellow teeth. “They are known for that.”

The other men laughed and Dacey ignored them.

The first stars were visible on the distant horizon, when first Skagosi showed their face. All of them were long-haired men, garbed in thick pelts and carrying axes and spears. The leader, an elderly man garbed in in a roughly-worked bearskin, was the only one who carried a sword at his hip. His face was as hard as the cliffs lining Skago’s coast and his hair was as black as the sea.

“Why did you come here, strangers?” he growled in the coarse dialect of the Common Tongue. “This is our Island and we do not like outsiders.”

“I am Lady Maege Mormont,” her mother introduced herself and showed him her axe. “We have been sent here to find a woman named Osha and a boy named Rickon. We humbly ask for your hospitality. We have also brought gifts.”

Dacey led the packhorse towards the leader. They had brought useful gifts: pelts, dried meat, leather and some valuable trinkets.

The leader took in the gifts, then smiled when he noticed Dacey’s presence.

“I want the girl too,” the leader grumbled, his voice laced with hum amusement. “For my bed.”

Dacey couldn’t help but to spat at him.

“Be careful what you say or you can kiss my axe.”

The man laughed and bared his white teeth.

“I would like to see that, girl, but to your ill-luck I am already bound to another woman, who would cut off my balls if I were to lay with another,” he threw back and shifted his attention to her Lady Mother. “Your gifts are accepted, woman, and you shall have our hospitality for six whole days. Enough time to go about your business.”

Her Lady Mother’s face betrayed her obvious displeasure.

“What about Rickon? We were told he came here in company of a Wildling woman that goes by the name Osha.”

“Mistress Osha,” the man corrected her Lady Mother and stroked his beard. “Aye, that is my woman, but her boy is called Rickwyle, not Rickon.”

“Rickwyle then,” her Lady Mother corrected herself. “I must speak to him and his mother. May we also know who we have before us?”

“You may,” the leader replied gruffly. “I am Magnar Sigurd. I rule these lands since I slew my father’s useless bastard son. Now come, my keep awaits.”

They followed them along a broad road that led to a large settlement that sprawled over several hills. Most buildings were made of wood and clay. Yet, the moat surrounding and the blackened towers looming over the wooden palisades walls looked threatening enough.

As they passed through the wooden gates they were watched from all sides. The guardsmen standing atop the battlements watched them with their spears in hand. Dacey ignored their glowering looks and they followed the main road that led to another hill.

There they found a large wooden keep that had been built around a massive weirwood tree. A pigsty was not far and there was a flat wooden building that could be some sort of stable.

There, at the gates, their leader was greeted by his men. He threw a handful of commands at them, before they were relieved of their horses and allowed to refresh themselves. Dacey was surprised that these people had a bathhouse, filled with boiling water. Dacey took a bath in company of her Lady Mother while their manly warriors kept each other company.

“Rickwyle,” Dacey repeated the name they had been given and scrubbed her hair. “What right does this Osha woman have to lay a claim on the boy?”

“Perhaps she wanted to protect him,” her Lady Mother replied and allowed herself to soak in the water. “The Starks are not well-liked in these lands.”

Washed and refreshed, they were brought into a long hall made of wooden logs and decorated with the skulls of fearsome beasts. She spotted bear skulls, deer skulls, wolf skulls and so forth.

The men seated around the wooden table that stood elevated above the other tables in the hall, looked equally fearsome. Some of the men she had seen in Magnar Sigurd’s company, but there were also women, garbed in pelts and rough robes. Most of them wore their hair in thick braids that were bound together on the front and colorful tattoos lined their cheeks.

Behind the wooden table filled with people rose a staircase made of stone that led up to a large wooden chair, covered with a thick bear pelt. Seated on said chair was Magnar Sigurd and a little below sat a woman and a young girl.

The woman had a hard face, framed by plaited brown hair. Her dress was made of white deerskin and her cloak was made of a grey bear pelt that was held together by a silver pin.

 _This must be the famous Osha_ , Dacey thought, but found no trace of Rickon Stark.

“I am Lady Maege Mormont,” her mother explained again. “And I am here to find Lady Osha and Rickon.”

“Lady?” the woman snorted. “I am called Osha, but I am certainly no Lady. And Rickwyle is not here. He went to hunt with the other boys.”

“Rickwyle then,” her Lady Mother corrected herself again. “When can we expect him back?”

“In a few days,” the woman Osha explained in obvious displeasure.

“This is no common hunt,” Magnar Sigurd explained and kissed the woman’s cheek.” This is the new-years hunt. Every boy nearing his sixth name day partakes in it. They have to kill a bear. Only then will they be regarded true men.”

“Men?” her Lady Mother asked. “How can a boy of six be a man?”

“A boy who can kill is a man. We at Skagos do not cuddle our young ones. The winters are long and hard here. They need to be strong if they want to grow old and father many children. Especially, my heir.”

“Your heir?” her Lady Mother asked and blinked.

“My heir,” Magnar Sigurd confirmed. “While I have been blessed with strength I have sadly not been blessed with a son of my blood. I have only a daughter, but by wedding her, Rickwyle will be my son and his own sons shall rule after me.”

Dacey clenched her teeth and her Lady Mother looked tense.

“I hope then, that Rickwyle’s hunt will be blessed by success,” her Lady Mother replied politely and accepted a cup of ale.

 _May the gods protect the boy_ , Dacey thought and took a gulp from the ale. She nearly choked on the bitter substance.

The Magnar’s boisterous laughter echoed through the hall when he noticed her predicament.

“Not to your taste, is it?” he asked and grinned as he waved his hand at the young girl seated beside Osha’s feet. Dacey hadn’t paid her much attention, but now she recognized the resemblance.

The girl shared the Magnar’s sharp features and the same thick black hair kept in too long braids bound together in front of her. She also sported the colorful tattoos that all women on this island seemed to favour.”

Yet, the most embarrassing thing was that the girl was drinking the same ale that had made Dacey choke.

“This is my daughter Zheva,” the Magnar explained proudly. “She as strong and stubborn as the mountains of Skagos. She will make a good wife to your Lord’s son.”

Her Lady Mother paled.

“You know about Rickon’s identity, my Lord?”

“Of course, I do,” the Magnar explained cheerfully and placed one leg over the other as he leaned back in his chair. “My woman has no secrets from me. I know that he is of wolf’s blood, but that makes no difference to me. The boy came to us when he was four namedays old. A boy that young belongs to no one. He is now one of us.”

Her Lady Mother’s grip tightened around her wooden cup, showing her displeasure.

“Forgive me for saying so, but the boy is Lord Eddard Stark’s trueborn son. He cannot be a Skagosi.”

“The boy can be whatever he wants to be,” The woman called Osha countered stubbornly. “He was entrusted to me by Brandon Stark and I have done my best to raise him. He was so young when I took him that he started to regard me as his mother. I tried to explain it to him, but he wouldn’t listen. He is a willful child. You can ask him yourself.”

With these words, they were dismissed from the Magnar’s halls and led to their sleeping place. It was large rectangular chamber, furnished with a hearth and plenty of furs to keep them warm.

The supper was simple: fish and dark bread accompanied by some sort of stinking cheese that was supposedly made from unicorn milk.

Dacey was glad they received a bowl of milk instead of this godless ale they had been served in the Magnar’s halls.

Her tongue was still burning from the taste of it.

Strangely, she had no problem to fall asleep that night. The long travel had been exhausting.

It were the loud cheers of men that woke her from her slumber and not long after Osha came to see them.

“Rickwyle and the other boys have returned,” she informed them. “You better dress warmly. Fresh snow has fallen over night.”

Dacey shuddered when she stepped outside, the sky covered in a blanket of grey fluff. Snowflakes melted in her hair as she trudged through the mud and snow out to the inner courtyard where the large weirwood stood surrounded by grey walls of clay.

The leaves rustled and the ugly grimace in the tree bled crimson tears.

A moment later, a horde of boys came riding unto the courtyard, accompanied by an even louder horde of warriors, growling words of encouragement at the boys in the Skagosi Tongue.

Each boy was seated atop a scraggy pony with a horn atop their head, dragging behind them bloody animal parts that once belonged to bear.

Yet, one of the boys stood out as he was not seated on a pony, but on a massive direwolf.

There was no doubt. They had indeed found Rickon Stark.

Like the other boys, he wore a rough robe of bear pelt, a chain of bones dangling around his neck. Fastened on his leather belt, he carried a black dagger and his feet were covered with pelted boots in the form of bear claws.

The boy looked as if he had been born among the Skagosi.

He laughed when one of the massive warriors scooped him up in his arms and placed him in front of the Magnar’s feet.

Rickon Stark said something in the coarse language of the Skagosi and dipped his head before the Magnar.

The Magnar laughed and ruffled the boy’s long fuzzy red hair.

The boy laughed and the men cheered their approval. Some even knelt before him and licked his bloody hands.

“Rickwyle killed the boar himself,” Osha explained to Dacey and her Lady Mother. “It has been a long time that a warg dwelled among the people of Skagos. That is part of the reason my husband chose Rickwyle as his heir. He wants to strengthen his bloodline.”

Dacey didn’t believe her ears.

 “A warg?” Dacey asked and exchanged a quiet look with her Lady Mother. “Are you sure?”

“Brandon Stark is also a warg,” Osha replied and furrowed her brows in confusion. “It is in Rickwyle’s blood.”

“I see,” her Lady Mother said, her gaze fixed on Rickon Stark, who was presenting the bear skull to his adoptive father. “Will you introduce us?”

“Of course,” Osha told them. “Come along. There shall be a feast. I hope you like bear flesh.”

Not long after, the parts of the bear were put on large spears. They were roasted over the open cookfires and soaked with fat and honey.

Dacey, her Lady Mother and their men received their fill, before they were brought before the Magnar.

This time, Rickon Stark was seated beside his adoptive father, his massive wolf sprawled before his feet.

The wolf bared his teeth at them.

The boy gave them a mistrustful look as he touched the wolf’s head.

“Who are you?” the boy asked Lady Mormont. “You are familiar.”

Relief showed on her Lady Mother’s face.

“I am Lady Maege Mormont, one of your Lord Father’s bannermen…Lord Eddard Stark…,” her Lady Mother began, but Rickon cut her off.

“Lord Eddard Stark is not my father,” the boy replied sharply, his face a grimace of pain. “He left me. My ‘other mother’ as well. I hate them. That is why Osha is now my true mother.”

Then, the boy shifted his attention to the Magnar.

“Make them go away. Or kill them. I don’t care.”

“I cannot do that, my boy,” the Magnar replied with obvious amusement and ruffled Rickon’s hair. “For six days they shall be our guests. I suggest you listen to what they have to say, my son.”

 “Very well, father,” Rickon Stark replied sullenly and lifted his gaze to look at her Lady Mother. “What do you want from me?”

“Your brother sent us…Lord Robb Stark,” her Lady Mother replied softly. “He told us to bring you home.”

The mention of Robb Stark helped to soften the boy’s features.

“Robb is alive?” Rickon Stark asked in disbelief, his blue eyes wide with hope. “I thought…I thought he is dead.”

“He is alive,” her Lady Mother assured him. “Though he is currently marching to the Wall. Upon his return he plans to take care of the Ironbound. That is if Lord Bolton hasn’t taken care of them until then.”

A strange expression took hold of the boy’s face as his grip tightened on the handle of his chair, turning his knuckles white.  “That cannot be true. The Boltons are evil…the bastard…he helped Theon to burn down Winterfell. He killed everyone.”

Dacey and her mother exchanged a confused look. That is not what they had heard.

“We only know what we have heard,” her Lady Mother explained. “Namely, that Theon Greyjoy and his horde of Ironborn sacked Winterfell. Ramsay Snow, the bastard you speak of, claims that he drove the Ironborn out of Winterfell.”

“Ramsay Snow is also a known rapist, mother,” Dacey added, recalling the vile rumors they had heard about him. “Remember, Lord Stark sent out men to capture him.”

“Aye,” her Lady Mother replied, her grey eyes still fixed on Rickon Stark. “It is certainly possible. The Boltons are a house of traitors.”

“Bran and I saw it all,” Rickon Stark insisted with a shaking head, his blue eye wet with tears at the memory. “This bastard was hunting us. That is why Bran sent me and Osha away. I wanted to go with him, but he refused. I hate him too. He didn’t want me…like mother and father didn’t want me.”

“Sssh,” Osha leaned over and pulled the boy into an embrace. “Bran was only trying to protect you. I told you a thousand times. And see, now they have come to get you. They do want you back, isn’t that so?”

Osha’s actions surprised Dacey. Mayhaps the boy’s tears had changed her mind.

“It is true,” her Lady Mother replied and lowered her head in reverence. “We came to take you home, Lord Rickon. We all missed you dearly.”

“Winterfell is gone,” the boy said in a trembling voice and fisted his chain made from bird skulls. “The bastard and Theon destroyed my home. I want to devour their evil hearts to drive their evil spirits from this world.”

Then, he stood and started to growl foreign words at the Magnar.

All men had suddenly fallen silent. Within the blink of a moment the boy had freed his black dagger and had cut open his hand. The wolf was at his side, howling his approval.

When he was done, Rickon Stark clenched his fist and sprinkled the blood into his mouth and bits of it unto the ground.

The warriors cheered and pounded their hands at the wooden tables, growling their approval.

At last, the Magnar rose from his seat and patted Rickon’s head, before smiling at Dacey and her Lady Mother.

He unsheathed his blade and drove it into the ground, his hand resting on the hilt made of the pale bark of the weirwood.

“I hold no love for the Starks, but Rickwyle Redhair is one of us and thus I am bound to fight for his cause. This I swear by the honor of the Skagosi. This I swear by blood and stone, buy sun and moon, by earth and sky. A blood vow. A vow unbroken.”

…


	63. The Iron Bank

**Sam**

The Iron Bank was a massive building made of marble  and held by gilded stone pillars. At its entrance they were greeted by the thirteen statues of the keyholders that had founded this institution of wealth and terror.

 _The Iron Bank will have its due_ , was a common phrase to show their strength, so much even Samwell Tarly knew.

What followed were hundreds of steps leading up to the entrance and a heavy door made of gold that could only be opened by the hands of a good dozen of men.

The walk-up steps was enough to make Sam catch for his breath, but for Maester Aemon it was a pain. Even so, Sam had heard not a single complaint coming over Maester Aemon’s lips. He had carried his burden with the same endurance as always.

_Stop complaining, Sam. If Maester Aemon can endure this burden, then you can do it as well._

Entering the large hall, Sam was blinded by the Iron Bank’s opulence. Polished floors of black marble, arched corridors, gilded doors and rich carpets greeted them wherever they looks.

Sam felt out of place despite his new clothing. He had changed his black garments to something more fitting: grey trousers, a silken-blue tunic, a leather jerking that did not quite fit his form and black boots. He had also cut his hair and had shaved off his beard. Maester Aemon had also changed into a finer robe, but otherwise he still wore the garments of a Maester of the Citadel.

“Welcome to the Iron Bank,” a man in a long green robe greeted them across the hall. He was thin, dark-eyed and sported a black beard streaked with grey. He bowed his head as he walked, his voice soft and heavy from the Braavosi tongue. “My name is Tycho Nestoris, one of the keyholders. My brothers have also come and the Sealord himself. It seems the name Targaryen still holds enough sway in these halls.”

“It seems so,” Maester Aemon said softly and leaned heavily on Sam’s shoulder as his unseeing eyes turned in the direction of Tycho Nestoris’ voice. “But I think it has more to do with the current situation in Slaver’s Bay, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does, Prince Aemon,” Tycho Nestoris confirmed with a knowing smile. “But that is not the only reason. The others can tell you more. Would you please follow me?”

Maester Aemon chuckled. “It would be my pleasure.”

They were led along a broad corridor decorated with large paintings, surrounded by gilded frames.  They showed men in colorful robes of silk, brocade and lace, their twirled beards defying all laws of earth. Sam eyed them with great curiosity, nearly stumbling over his feet. Some of them showed a certain resemblance to the statues in front of the Iron Bank.

 _Are these the current keyholders_ , he wondered and helped Maester Aemon to climb up another staircase, leading to another gilded doors.

 _Is everything in this place made of marble and gold_ , Sam wondered and followed the keyholder into long narrow room, furnished with a large polished table of black and chairs made from white wood. The sealing above was even more impressive, made of silver and inlaid with all kinds of jewels. Sam spotted rubies, emeralds and diamonds.

The men seated at the table, looked all quite similar. All of them wore a broad robe of shining silk, brocade or some other fine cloth Sam couldn’t name. They also sported twirling beards and mustaches, braided or held together with golden pins inlaid with rubies and opals.

At the head of the table, sat a tall man with a hawke-like face, his brown whiskers streaked with grey. He wore golden robes, laughing faces of black silk embellished on his arms and around his neckline. His eyes were a clear jade green and his smile was so bright it could have cleaved steel.

 _This must be the Sealord…Tormo Fregar_ , Sam guessed and bowed his head. He didn’t really know anything about the customs of Braavos, but a bow could never be wrong he supposed.

Maester Aemon did the same, but only after Sam had helped him into one of the chairs covered with soft plush.

“I am Maester Aemon, formerly Prince Aemon Targaryen, son of King Maekar and his wife Lady Dyanna Dayne. You might not be very familiar with me, but my brother King Aegon the Unlikely, his son King Jaehaerys and his son King Aerys Targaryen,” he explained and pulled the signet from his fingers. Sam hadn’t even known of its existence until Aemon had put it on his finger this very morning. It was another item he had given to Marwyn for safekeeping. “This should suffice as proof.”

Tycho Nestoris picked the ring from the table in front of Aemon and handed it to the men closest to him. One man after another, took a look at the ring, before at last the Sealord himself took the ring.

“A beautiful ring,” Tormo Fregar said, in a heavy Braavosi accent. “Is that obsidian?”

“Indeed,” Maester Aemon confirmed with a chuckle. “I am surprised you noticed it. You must have good eyes, my Lord.”

“Lordship,” Tormo Fregar corrected him in a friendly tone and waved his hands at the servants that had lined up at the entrance to the room. Then, he handed the ring back to his neighbor. “Most call me your Lordship. How do you wish to be addressed? Maester? Prince? I fear I do not quite understand what is appropriate given your belonging to the Night’s Watch.”

“Prince Aemon or Maester Aemon if it pleases you, your Lordship,” Maester Aemon replied with a smile. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Next, the servants came forward serving each man a cup of wine and small cakes on silver plates.

When the servants had fluttered out of the room, the Sealord spoke again.

“Good, good,” he said and leaned back in his large armchair, seizing them up. Then, he exhaled deeply and laughed. “Well, your visit came as a surprise to us, Prince Aemon. We have heard aplenty about your niece Princess Daenerys Targaryen, but your existence was a surprise to us. We thought that all children born from the loins of King Maekar had long perished. Well, another surprise. Now tell us, why did you come here?”

“I think you already know that, your Lordship,” Maester Aemon replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have called upon the major keyholders of the Iron Bank nor would you have come yourself. You have interest in Princess Daenerys’ war in Slaver’s Bay, isn’t that so?”

“You are a clever man, Prince Aemon, ” the Sealord replied after he had taken a sip from his cup of wine. “It is true. We are all concerned about the situation and do not know what to make of it. We had hoped you would be able to clarify the situation for us. Are you in contact with Princess Daenerys?”

“No,” Maester Aemon replied bluntly. He could have lied, but that wouldn’t have been Maester Aemon’s way. “I am not in contact with Princess Daenerys, but I came here to be of help to her as long as my health allows it. Tell me, how are House Targaryen’s  personal vaults? Has Robert Baratheon been granted permission to plunder them as well?”

Hushed whispers filled the long hall after Maester Aemon had said those words. Sam read displeasure on the men’s faces, some of them openly glowering at Sam and the old man at his side.

Tycho seemed merely amused by this notion. “Robert Baratheon’s Hand tried to gain access to your family’s personal vaults, but we are not any institution. We are the Iron Bank. Thus, the fall from grace of your family never had any influence on the Iron Bank’s strict policies of protecting the wealth of their honored customers.”

“And that means?” Maester Aemon asked softly.

“That the wealth is as it was before King Aerys Targaryen lost his crown. The vaults of the Iron Throne on the other hand…that is an entirely different story.”

“They are empty,” Maester Aemon surmised. “Isn’t, that so?”

“Not just empty,” the Sealord said teasingly and stroked his beard. “The Iron Throne has gathered a great amount of debt during Robert Baratheon’s reign. Stannis Baratheon promised our last envoy that he would repay at least one third of the debt over the following two years, but considering that he is currently preparing a war against the newly crowned King of the Westerlands and Reach, his promise is as empty as the love of a whore.”

The Sealord angled his head and waved his hand at Tycho. “In fact, most of us are hoping that Jaime Lannister will prevail in this battle, for his bride, Lady Margaery might be the key to a great amount of gold and our way to regain our wealth.”

“Jaime Lannister is an oathbreaker, a kingslayer and known to have committed adultery with his own sister. As a Targaryen that might sound hypocritical, but a man like him isn’t someone the Iron Bank should trust. Let me make you a better offer if I can.”

The Sealord’s dark eyes widened with interested as he tapped his fingers upon the polished table. ”We are all ears, Prince Aemon.”

“First I need to know how much of the wealth of House Targaryen is still left?”

Tycho was quick to provide an answer, searching through his heap of parchments and presenting it to Sam, who read out the sum at the bottom of the paper.

“Five-hundred thousand gold dragons,” Sam stuttered. “Backed by silver and gold.”

“And the debt?” Maester Aemon asked. “How much does the Iron Throne owe you?”

“Two million gold dragons,” Tycho provided quickly. “That is the sum the Crown owes the Iron Bank.”

Sam couldn’t believe his ears. In his time as steward he had gotten a good insight into the books of the Night’s Watch. With this amount of gold they could have easily fed the men of the Night’s Watch all through winter.

Maester Aemon remained calm as ever, his unseeing eyes staring off into the distance.

“I offer you the repayment of a quarter of the debts over a period two years. Princess Daenerys is young. I think she should be able to repay the rest of the debts once she has retaken the Iron Throne.”

“Only a quarter?” one of the men seated at the table asked.

He was fat, his beard red as blood. “That is not enough. Besides, how can we trust this kin of yours? Princess Daenerys Targaryen’s war has cost us much coin and it will take years before the region will be stable again. Nay, I say. Nay.”

Other keyholders shook their heads, making their disapproval known.

“Half of the debt need to be repaid at least,” added another man. “That is our demand.”

“That is too much,” Maester Aemon remained firm. “And you know that yourself, my Lord. I am an old man and blind, but that is a ridiculous demand. You also mentioned losses caused by my kin’s campaign in Slaver’s Bay…Pray tell me, has Braavos changed its policy towards slavery?”

“Be careful what you say, old man,” the Sealord snapped, all amusement gone from his sharp-featured face and played with the golden chain around his neck. “Calling Braavosi slavers is not the best way to make friends, but you are not wrong. While we do not outright support slavery, we do make coin through business that is distantly related to Slaver’s Bay, but that shouldn’t be a surprise to a smart man like you. Business connects us all like an invisible chain. One disruption and we all suffer losses. That said, I am no friend of slavery. In fact, I wholeheartedly support your kin’s hard stance on this godless practice. Tell me, have you heard about the current situation in Volantis?”

Maester Aemon shook his head, but Sam had heard some disturbing rumors from the sailors.

He squeezed Maester Aemon’s shoulders and searched the Sealord’s face. “They say the slaves of Volantis rose in rebellion against the Masters.”

“Indeed,” the Sealord confirmed and swept his gaze over the men seated at his table. “The slaves of Volantis have risen up in rebellion after they heard of Princess Daenerys’ victory in Yunkai. The nobles of the city used violence to subjugate the slaves with a bloody rod, but I have recently received news that might stir the flames of rebellion anew: the Volanteen Fleet has been defeated and the Old Tiger has fallen in battle.”

Surprise was apparent on the keyholder’s faces. It was clear to Sam that none of them had known about this.

 _What game is the Sealord playing_ , Sam thought with growing discomfort. _Why did he omit this important piece of information?_

Hushed whispers followed, but they spoke so softly that Sam couldn’t hear their words.

“Calm yourself, my friends,” the Sealord said and raised his hands. “I know this new piece of information is a surprise to you all, but then we have been long aware of Prince Daenerys’ dragons.”

“Small dragons we were told,” Tycho added softly. “But not able to defeat the might of the Volanteen Fleet. This changes everything.”

“Indeed,” the Sealord agreed wholeheartedly, a serious expression taking hold of his sharp face.  It made him look years older than he probably was. “Forgive me, for keeping this information hidden until I have had the possibility to get a look at you. I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest.”

“Understandable,” Maester Aemon added. “But what does that mean for my cause?”

The Sealord grinned as he picked a small cake from the silver plate. It was a small piece of lemon cake decorated with a cherry.

The sight had sent Sam’s stomach rolling, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He had already devoured their plate filled with small cakes, but it had not  been enough to satisfy Sam’s appetite.

“It means that I intend to sail the Braavosi Fleet for Volantis to add my strength to these poor slaves,” the Sealord said at last, baring his pearl-white teeth to the world. “And when this goal has been accomplished, I shall speak to your niece. I would be pleased to have you there as well, Prince Aemon.”

Maester Aemon considered the Sealord’s words in silence, before he finally spoke again.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you on this travel,” Maester Aemon said. “But I am an old man. I might not survive that long.”

“Your companion can accompany us and speak on your behalf should you not be able to make it,” the Sealord quipped and pointed at Sam and the empty plate in front of him. “I always take enough food on my travels. I am sure it will suffice for us all.”

Sam’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, his tongue suddenly in knots.

“Samwell is set for the Citadel,” Maester Aemon informed the Sealord and reminded him of his duty in the same breath. “But I have other travelling companions that will gladly accompany us to Volantis. They will take care of my needs.”

“The Citadel?” the Sealord asked and gave Sam a curious glance. “One of my trade galleys is going to leave for Braavos on the morrow. It seems fate has conspired to shower you with luck, my young friend.”

Sam’s cheeks burned as hot as a brazier as he returned the Sealord’s smile.

“It seems so, your Lordship.”

…


	64. Justice

**Arya**

Arya watched with satisfaction as the Hound was being dragged out unto the trampled meadow before  the Inn at the Crossroads.

She had waited so long for this moment. Now the Hound would finally face the justice he deserved for killing her friend.

The Elder Brother had of course protested, but his pleadings had fallen on deaf ears. Within the blink of a moment, the men of the Brotherhood without Banners had subjugated the Hound, though he had bloodied some eyes and noses along the way.

Not much to Arya’s surprise, neither her Lady Mother nor Ser Ryger had spoken out against Lord Dondarrion’s command. They had only accepted the Hound’s company out of necessity.

It had been a pleasant surprise as had been Harwin’s presence among the Brotherhood without Banner.

At first, Arya hadn’t even recognized him. His time in the Brotherhood had left its mark on him. He was much thinner and he had grown out his hair, giving him a ruddy appearance.

Yet, when he had kissed her Lady Mother’s hands and had smiled at Arya, she knew it was true. Harwin had survived despite all the suffering he must have gone through.

“Free me, Thoros!” the Hound snarled at the man, Arya would have never recognized to be Thoros of Myr. Arya recalled him as a tall, fat man with flapping red robes.  He too had lost his girth and had grown out his hair. It was of a dirty grey color and his beard looked as if he hadn’t shaved it in years. “Free me, and I shall drive my blade through your burning heart!”

Again, the Hound struggled, trying to free himself from the ropes that had been tied around his neck and hands. His anger reminded Arya of a wild bull, but Harwin, Gendry and a man commonly called Tom o’ Sevenstrings managed to restrain him barely.

“Why is the Hound in your company, my Lady Stark?” Thoros asked her Lady Mother. “Or were you not aware of his identity?”

“We knew,” her Lady Mother confirmed and threw a sat glance at the Elder Brother. “But we had no other choice. Two of our guardsmen were wounded during a skirmish with highwaymen and the Elder Brother or better said Ser Robin Darry offered us the services of his two most capable swordsmen. One was the Hound and the other is this man over there who is commonly called the Stranger. While I do understand your dedication to your cause, I would ask of you to make an exception. The Hound has done us no harm and has served well.”

“I cannot do that,” Thoros scoffed with obvious displeasure and threw a quick glance at Elder Brother and the Stranger. The Elder Brother glowered at Thoros and the Stranger concealed his pale face beneath the shadow of his hood. “The R’hllor demands justice.”

“Your god can kiss my ass!” the Hound snarled. “Do whatever you want with me, Thoros, but keep the bloody fire away from me.”

Thoros smiled. “I am no longer the false priest you knew. The Lord of Light was woken in my heart. Powers who have been asleep are now waking. I have seen in it in the flames.”

The Hound calmed, but looked unimpressed.

“Fuck your flames. And you as well,” the Hound cursed and swept his gaze over the rest of the entourage that had arrived in company of Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion.

“These are my brothers,” Lord Beric Dondarrion explained. He too had changed. The once handsome lord, looked like a scarecrow of a man, wearing a ragged cloak speckled with stars and an iron breastplate dinted by a hundred battles. A thicket of red-gold hair hid most of his face, save for the bald spot above his left ear where his head had been smashed in. Yet, that was no the worst of his injuries. One of his eyes was gone and nothing more than a scarred socket was left. “The brotherhood without banners.”

The Hound laughed. “You are no brotherhood. You look more like pig framers than soldiers.”

“Some of us are indeed pig framers,” a short man with greying hair said. “And some were tanners or singers or masons, but that was before the war came.”

“When we left King’s Landing we were knights and squires, bound together by our purpose,” Lord Beric added. “Six score of us set out to bring the King’s Justice to your brother. More than eighty of our company are dead now, but others have taken up their swords.  With their help, we fight on as best as we can, for Robert and the realm.”

“Robert?” the Hound asked in obvious confusion. “Then let me tell you. Your King has been dead for nearly three years.”

“Ned Stark send us, though,” another man added. He was tall and lanky, greasy yellow hair falling into his face. “But he was sitting the Iron Throne when he gave us our task, so we were never truly his men, but Robert’s.”

The Hound laughed again. “Robert is now King of the worms and Eddard Stark sits at the Wall. How can you speak judgment in the name of a deadman an in the name of a traitor. As far as I know, we have two Kings now…the Kingslayer in the Westerlands and the Reach and Stannis in the Crownlands and Stormlands. I also heard he likes fucking his Red Whore. Why not judge me on behalf of King Stannis? Isn’t he your new King?”

The Hound’s speech had been laced with mockery, but Beric Dondarrion seemed unaffected.

“Robert is dead,” Lord Dondarrion admitted. “And Stannis is King. You were right to point that out, yet it doesn’t matter to us. What truly matters is that we are King’s men, though the royal banner we bore was lost at the Mummer’s Ford when your brother’s butchers ambushed us. Still, we are defending the realm against her enemies.”

“Her?” the Hound taunted. “The realm you speak of is no her. It is made of rocks and trees and rivers. Do rocks need defending? Robert wouldn’t have agreed. If he couldn’t fuck it, fight it or drink it, it bored him and so would you…you oh so brave companions.”

The Hounds insults caused uproar among Lord Dondarrion’s companions.

“Call us that name again, dog, and you will lose your cock,” snapped a man that had introduced himself as Lem Lemoncloak, his sword bare.

Yet, the Hound knew no restraint.

“Oh, what a brave man you are?” The Hound continued to taunt them. “Baring steel on a captive bound? Untie me then. We will see how brave you are then.”

Then, he swept his gaze over the crowd of men that had gathered around Lord Dondarrion. “How about one of you?”

“We are brothers here,” Thoros of Myr declared proudly. “Holy brothers, sworn to the realm, to our god and to each other.”

“The Brotherhood without Banners,” the man named Tom Sevenstrings added softly and plucked a string, bringing forth a sweet sound. “The knights of the hollow hill.”

“Knights?” The Hound sneered. “Dondarrion might have once been a knight, but you are the sorriest lot I have ever laid eyes on.”

“Any knight can make a knight,” Lord Dondarrion said. “And every man you see before you has felt the touch of a sword on their shoulder.”

“Very well,” the Hound scoffed. “Knights or not, but if you mean to murder me, then get on with it…I am sick and tired of these pious talks. I heard enough of this bloody nonsense at the Quiet Isle.”

“You shall die soon enough,” promised Thoros. “But it shall be justice.”

“Aye, “ Harwin added icily. “A kinder fate than you deserve for what your kind have done. At Sherrer and at the Mummer’s Ford, girls of six and seven were raped and babes still on  the breasts were cut in two while their mother’s were forced to watch.”

“Deeds committed the Ser Gregor Clegane,” the Elder Brother countered. “Even at the Quiet Isle we have heard of the Mountain’s bloody reputation.”

“Be quiet,” Thoros silenced the Elder Brother. “You yourself ought to know that House Clegane was built upon dead children. I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne.”

The Elder Brother looked as if he had been struck, his gaze darting over his shoulder at the Stranger, before flickering back to the Hound and Thoros.

“No, House Clegane is a cursed house, but even so…the Seven command us to show compassion to those who do evil, for it is their suffering that leads them down such a dark path. And to  put the blame on a man for his brother’s crimes goes against the Seven.”

“The Seven have no power here,” Thoros replied coldly. “And there were many more men and women this man killed.”

Each man gave one or two names, a good hundred of them in total, some unknown and others familiar. They went on and on, until the Hound lost his patience.

“Enough,” the Hound demanded, his face flushed. He clenched his teeth like a wild dog. “Who are they?”

“People,” Lord Dondarrion explained. “People great and small, young and old. Good and bad people, who died by Lannister hands and your own. You served them. Do you deny it?”

“Aye, I did kill!” the Hound spat. “Me and a thousand more. Is each of us guilty of the crimes of the others?”

“The man speaks true,” the Stranger added in his usual rattling voice and pulled back his hood, baring his pale face and obsidian gaze. “The orders of a liege lord cannot be attributed to his knights. What you suggest goes against common practice of law. To do right by the law, you must bring him before the lord in which’s dominion these crimes were committed or before the King. You must also call for his liege lord to give testament on these orders to judge the matter rightly. That is the only lawful way to judge him, but then you are not lawful men, are you? You are a band of outlaws who claim to take your orders from a dead King, but this too goes against the common practice of law. A dead King cannot give legitimacy to laws, only his son or regent can, which brings us back to the beginning: to judge him lawfully you must bring him before a lord eligible to preside over his trial or a King. You, a band of outlaws, have no right to sit justice over him.”

“And who are you?” Thoros asked. “That you are counseling me on the try letters of law?”

“I am no one,” the Stranger replied icily, his teeth clenched. It was the second time, Arya sensed some sort of humanity in the man. The first time had been when he had told them the scary tale about the Great Other and the Children of the Forest. “But I know the law, unlike you Priest.”

“Law?” Lord Beric asked and laughed softly. “There is no law in this land. Not since, King Robert’s death and some would say even before that when King Aerys’ back was pierced by the Kingslayer’s golden sword. Justice has long failed in these lands. That is why men like us must see justice done.”

Arya couldn’t say what had happened, but in that moment the Stranger’s dark eyes had changed.

They looked as if a candle had been lit.

“I know one or two things about failed justice,” the Stranger muttered to himself and touched his brow, as if he had been overcome by a sudden onslaught of a headache. “But it makes your actions any more lawful…” he  was about to continue, but the Hound cut him off.

“Enough!” the Hound shouted impatiently. “Enough of this babbling! Give me my sword and I shall gut each one of you who dares to lay my brother’s bloody deeds at my door?”

“Very well,” Thoros said and smiled. “You stand accused of murder, but as your companion pointed out rightly, no one here knows the truth or falsehood of each of these charges. That is why we will leave it to the Lord of Light to judge you…I sentence you to trial by combat.”

The Hound frowned at that, as if he didn’t quite trust his ears. “Are you sure, Thoros?”

“I am sure,” Thoros confirmed. “Prove your innocence with your blade and you shall go free.”

Arya didn’t believe her ears either.

“No!” Arya couldn’t help but to protest, though her Lady Mother held her back, chiding her for her outburst. “He is going to win! Don’t let him get away!”

The Hound only laughed, his voice laced with contempt.

“So who will it be?” he asked and looked around.

He looked excited, like a wild beast thirsting for blood.

“It’s me you will face, dog,” Beric said at last and stepped forward.

Arya wondered how this man, who looked as if he had died a thousand deaths, could hope to prevail against the Hound.

“Very well, but I shall  have need of my sword and armor.”

“Sword you shall have, “ Lord Dondarrion declared. “But your innocence must be your armor.”

The Hound didn’t look impressed.

“My innocence against your dented breastplate, is that your way of justice?”

Lord Dondarrion angled his head to address a lanky boy with a fuzzy of pale-blond hair.

“Ned, help me remove my breastplate.”

The boy stepped up quickly to pull of his breastplate. The quilting beneath was rotten with age and sweat. The smell was even worse.

Her Lady Mother’s gasp was distant to her ears.

“Mother have mercy on us.”

Arya knew why and shuddered in her Lady Mother’s grasp, for Beric Dondarrion’s body was littered with wounds of battle. A puckered crater scarred his breast ,just above his nipple and when he turned to receive his sword and shield, one could see a matching scar upon his back. The lance must have gone right through him. It was a wound deadly wound, but here he was, alive and talking like a common man.

The boy named Ned also fetched Lord Beric’s sword belt and a long black surcoat. It was actually meant to be worn over armor and covered his body loosely.

Thoros brought the Hound his sword belt.

The Hound didn’t waste any time free his blade and threw the scabbard away.  He also received an oaken shield, studded with iron. Not long after, the boy Ned brought Beric’s shield, so hacked and battered that the purple lightening had been completely obliterated.

When the Hound made a step towards his enemy, Thoros of Myr raised a hand and stopped him.

“First we pray,” Thoros muttered, like a solemn Septon. “Lord of Light, look down upon us.”

All men suddenly raised their voices, safe for her Lady mother, Arya, the Stranger, the Elder Brother and their guardsmen.

“Lord of Light, defend us.”

“Lord of Light, protect us from the darkness to come.”

“Lord of Light, shine your face upon us.”

“Light your flame among us,” Thoros continued. “Strike down this man if he is guilty and give strength to his sword if he is true. Lord of Light, give us wisdom.”

“For the night is dark,” the others chanted along softly. “And full of terrors.”

“I hope your god is a kind one, Dondarrion,” the Hound scoffed. “For you are going to meet him soon.”

Lord Beric didn’t hesitate to lay the edge of his longsword against the palm of his left hand and drew it slowly down. Black blood ran dark from the gash and washed over the steel.

Suddenly, the sword took fire.

“Burn in the seven hells!” the Hound cursed, his voice laced with fear. “You and Thoros too.”

Then, the Hound made his move. Lord Beric waited patiently, his shield on his left arm and his sword burning on his right hand.

His face was ugly to behold, even uglier than the Hound’s. It was a mask of death, his missing eye a red and angry wound.

He also didn’t seem to feel the heat.

When the Hound charged at him, the flaming sword leapt up to meet the cold steel of his enemy.

Steel rang on steel.

The blades parted and Clegane bashed his sword at Lord Beric’s shield. Pieces of wood dusted the air.

Hard and fast cuts followed, each blocked by Beric’s shield. Each move made the flames burn brighter, until it seemed as if the lightening lord stood within a cage of fire.

Fearfully, the Hound backed away. Now it was Lord Beric’s turn to attack, driving the bigger man backwards. Clegane parried this one blow and Lord Beric cut at his right shoulder, barely missing. The men shouted their approval, their voices distant echoes to Arya’s ears.

This time, the Hound parried an attack intended for his head, grimacing at the heat of the flames touching against his cheek.

He grunted loudly and reeled away.

Yet, Lord Beric gave him no time to rest.  He was quick on the dog’s heels. Swords clashed once more and parted, swirling flames kissing the dog once and twice and a third time in a row. The Hound tried to evade the flames, moving to the right, but Lord Beric cut off his way and drove him back towards a patch of wood. He nearly stumbled down the hill and towards the small brook.

“Fuck you!” the Hound snarled when the flames came close to his sweaty hair.  “Fuck you, Thoros! Keep the bloody fire away from me!”

As if possessed by madness, the Hound charged forward, swinging his heavy sword harder and harder against Lord Beric’s shield. It was brute force,  but not enough to vanquish his enemy. Again the flames reached for him and the Hound backed away, his feet giving out beneath him.

This time, he had barely managed to lift his shield in time, Lord Beric’s sword bouncing off it in a clinking sound that made the Hound scream out in pain.

 _His wound,_ Arya knew _. His shoulder is hurt._

_Good. Let him face his judgement. For Mycah._

Angrily, the Hound bashed is sword at his enemy and had discarded his burning shield in one breath.

The Hound took his sword in both hands and brought it down in a savage blow.

Lord Beric had parried the blow easily, but the Hound’s sword had snapped the burning one in two, his blade cutting deep into Lord Beric’s flesh where his shoulder joined his neck, the blood gushing forth like a river of ink.

Lord Beric’s knees folded slowly and when his mouth opened another gush of black blood spilled forward. The Hound’s sword was still buried in his chest as he fell forward and moved no more.

And thus the battle had ended. In another failed attempt of justice.

“Why?” Arya asked Thoros. “Why did he lose?”

“The gods decided it,” the Priest told her sadly and turned to his companions. “Lem, Ned. Help me.”

As he went, he wrenched the Hound’s blade from the body of his fallen lord and thrust the point into the blood-soaked grass.

Together they carried him away.

“I say we kill in him anyway!” one of the men demanded and drew his blade. Yet, the Elder Brother was quickly at him, freeing his blade. The Stranger was beside him, his black eyes blazing. In his hand he carried his lance.

“He won. There is no question about his innocence.”

“It is true,” Ser Ryger added in a shaky voice. Arya clenched her teeth, looking up at her Lady Mother.

Her face was as pale as ash.

“It is true,” her Lady Mother added in a trembling voice. “The gods have decided.”

Arya was seething with anger. _No, the gods are dead._

When all was said and done, her Lady Mother dragged her back into their chamber while the Elder Brother and the Stranger were taking care of the Hound.

She had Arya wash and Put on a fresh dress. Then, her Lady Mother left to speak to Lord Ryger while Arya was told to remain upstairs.

Arya had protested vehemently, wishing to see what was going with the Hound or to speak to Gendry, but her Lady Mother had two guards placed in front of her door.

Truly, the life of a lady was full of annoyances. How did Sansa do it?

Some time later, her Lady Mother finally returned, her face paler than before and her body trembling as she closed the door behind her.

Arya jumped to her feet and was quickly at her side, touching her shoulder hesitatingly.

“What happened?”

Her Lady Mother lifted her head slowly, her blue eyes wide with shock.

“Nothing,” she said in a high-strung voice and touched the back of Arya’s head, before placing a kiss on her brow. “Nothing happened. Now, put on your cloak. You must be hungry.”

Arya nodded her head in understanding and fastened her cloak around her shoulders.

Then, she and her Lady Mother joined the others in the common hall.

The room was filled to the brim, Jeyne Heddle’s orphans serving ale and offering broth to the members of the Brotherhood without Banners.

Arya searched for Gendry and found him seated at the largest table beneath a bear skull that was glowering at the guests. The most prominent members of the brotherhood were also seated there, Thoros….and Beric Dondarrion.

Arya froze in shock, grabbing her Lady Mother’s arm.

She looked down at Arya, gracing her with an anxious smile.

No wonder her Lady Mother had been so upset.

“Please come closer, my Lady Stark,” Beric said in a soft and distant voice. His face was like always, a mask of death. The wound the Hound had given him was concealed by his garments, but Arya knew it was there.

She didn’t know what to say. It felt so unreal.

“There is no reason to be afraid, my Lady Stark,” Beric assured her Lady Mother again. Perhaps if he could smile, it would be more convincing. “I know my presence is frightening to you, but there really is no reason to be afraid of me.”

“I am not afraid,” her Lady Mother told Lord Beric and pulled Arya towards the table. Arya noticed Gendry’s nonchalant demeanor and the presence of another familiar face. It was the boy she had seen before. Ned, she recalled at once. Up close, he looked older, perhaps ten and four. His face was clean-shaven, but his features were sharp and his deep violet eyes told her that he had seen more of the world than most boys his age. “But I do not know what you are, my Lord?”

Now, she knew why.

“Someone blessed by the Red God,” Thoros explained solemnly. “This was not the first time Beric returned to us.”

Her Lady Mother gasped and muttered a quick prayer.

“I do not know what that means,” her Lady Mother added quickly and gave Beric a trembling smile. “But I am glad you are back with us.”

“Are you, my Lady?” Beric asked, his voice laced with a deep sadness. “Well, I am not sure how glad I am. Every time I die, I lose something of myself. Well, there has to be a reason, for I have seen many a man not so fortunate as me. That said…I think I have found myself another task.”

“Another task?” her Lady Mother asked hesitatingly. “What do you say, my Lord?”

“You have need of protection, my Lady,” Beric explained and lowered his head in reverence. “The way to the Eyrie is dangerous and I wish to help you.”

Her Lady Mother calmed at once and folded her hands in front of her.

“I see,” she said, but looked torn. “I suppose it is fitting given that my husband established our brotherhood. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers. That means, I gladly accept your offer, my Lord.”

Arya didn’t know what to make of his words. It seemed they were picking up more and more travelling companions the closer they moved towards the Vale, but this one at least hadn’t killed one of her friends.

“And the Hound? Will he be allowed to join us?” Arya couldn’t help but to ask.

Beric angled his head to eye her more closely. His one eye appeared black in the candlelight.

“The Hound has been proven innocent. I cannot go against the judgement of the gods.”

His answer angered Arya more than she could openly express without displeasing her Lady Mother.

Holding unto the hem of her cloak, Arya tried to give voice to her anger while making a dignified impression on the men seated at the table.

“Speak plainly, Lord Dondarrion. What does it mean?”

“It means that I do not care whether the Hound remains in your company or not. This is your Lady Mother’s decision.”

Arya searched her Lady Mother’s face, hopeful that she would decide in her favor.

“Arya,” her Lady Mother said after a moment of silence had passed. “We have need of every man and the Elder Brother has been kind to us. I do not wish to insult him.”

“But the Hound is a murderer! Why does nobody care?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as low as possible.  Is it because Mycah was just a peasant boy?”

Her Lady Mother grabbed her shoulder, before she could run off, keeping her in place.

“The gods have decided, Arya,” her Lady Mother replied not without kindness. “We have to accept that.”

Arya gritted her teeth and brushed her Lady Mother’s hand from her shoulder, albeit as calmly as possible.

“I shall go now, my lords,” she declared politely and even managed a curtsy. “I am no longer hungry. I have need of a bit of fresh air.”

Her Lady Mother’s distant voice rang distant in Arya’s ears as fled through the open door.

The sky had changed to a dark velvet color by the time she made it outside, a warm breeze brushing through her hair.

She still heard voices echoing behind her, but she didn’t care. She had tried her best to play the role of a Lady, but now she had need for a bit of freedom.

Quickly, she shrugged off her boots and ran bare feet into the woods. The grass was cold beneath her feet, but it was nothing compared to the icy snow in the North.

Her heart skipped a beat as she hopped over a fallen tree, the smell of wet wood and grass filling her nose.

She was free, albeit only for this brief moment.

Having had a taste of freedom, she returned when the sun was beginning to descend in the east.

 _Mother will be angry_ , she knew but she didn’t care.

Yet, when she spotted Gendry caring for Lord Beric’s horse, she changed her mind.

Arya stopped, her feet still bare and frozen. Her dress was also dirty and torn on the side.

“I thought you are a knight?” Arya teased Gendry, who was brushing the brown destrier’s side with a rough brush. “Only squires do this sort of thing. Why isn’t this Ned doing it?”

Gendry chuckled. “I like to take care for horses. Besides, I owe Lord Beric a lot. Without him I would have starved in the wilderness. Without him I wouldn’t have a place to call my home.”

Arya couldn’t help but to frown. “You call this place your home? I see only an Inn stuffed with starving children. You should come with us to Giant’s Lance and then back to Winterfell. My brother has always need of knights. We don’t have that many in the North. We also have a forge.”

Gendry laughed at that and continued to brush the horse’s wild black hair. “I am a bastard knight, Arya. Someone like me does not belong among your brother’s knights. Besides, I have a responsibility for these children. I shan’t shun my duty. I shan’t be like my father.”

Arya was confused. This was the first time she had heard him speak of his father.

“What do you mean? I though you have no father.”

“Everybody has a father,” Gendry corrected her. “I just didn’t know who it was until Thoros told me. Well, my father is dead, so he can’t acknowledge my existence, but Thoros said we look similar…it was King Robert Baratheon. I am one of his many bastards.”

Arya blinked once and twice, but after the third time she realized that it was true. Gendry didn’t have the King’s girth, but they had the same dark hair and the same blue eyes. Gods, he even sported the same strength and height. _He even has a warmhammer_ , Arya thought with growing amusement. _Like his father._

“I see,”  Arya said and couldn’t help but to laugh at her own stupidity. “But you are not at all like him. He was very fat and you are not. I do not know what you mean with ‘I won’t be like him’.”

Gendry sighed and averted his gaze.

“What is it?” Arya asked and pressed further. “You can tell me…We are friends, are we not?”

“We are,” Gendry confirmed at last and exhaled deeply as his dark blue eyes flickered back to her. “What I meant is…I won’t father bastards…which is why I am going to wed Jeyne.”

Arya couldn’t believe what she had heard.

“The girl that owns the Inn?” she asked, the meaning of his words hitting her over the head.

“Did you? I see…,” she trailed off, shock palpable on her face or at least that is what she believed.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn’t bring herself to let the matter go.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

“So she is with child?”

Gendry swallowed hard and brushed his sweaty brown hair out of his face. His cheeks were also flushed, as if he was uncomfortable to talk about such matters in her presence.

“She is not with child,” he confirmed and averted his gaze once more. “But I…you know. There is a Septon by the name of Meribald. He comes here all few moons. He shall wed us upon his next visit.”

Arya didn’t know what to say. How stupid can someone be?

“So you tumbled with her in the hay. No, reason to wed her.”

Gendry’s eyes widened and her threw the brush away.

He looked displeased.

“You shouldn’t say such inappropriate things, Arya. Someone could hear you and then they will say that I am corrupting you. And that is another reason why I can’t come with you to Winterfell. Here I am someone. Jeyne and the children don’t care that I was born out of wedlock. In Winterfell I would only be the bastard that travelled with the Lady of Winterfell. That is the sad truth. You have your duty and I have mine.”

His words stirred her anger anew. “You sound almost like Jon…Duty here and duty there. That was the reason he went to the stupid Night’s Watch…and then he ran away anyway.”

“You are twisting my words, Arya,” Gendry complained with obvious frustration. “I was just pointing out the reality at hand. You are betrothed to a proper lord and I am a bastard knight. Your Lady Mother has been giving me these cold looks. That told me all I needed to know, namely that I ought to stay away from you.”

“I didn’t get a say in that matter!” Arya complained. “I don’t even want to wed this Harry…or whatever his stupid name is. Robb only wants it so he can get the Vale knights and corn for winter. He is selling me like a goat. I hate him for it…,” she continued to rant, but Gendry grabbed her shoulder and silenced her, his other one brushing over her cheek.

“Listen well, Arya,” Gendry said almost softly. “Jeyne and every girl in there would love to trade places with you. They would do everything to get a proper meal. You might see it as a poor trade, but this corn you speak off will feed many of these starving children you saw in that Inn. That is what I meant with duty. Being a lady and being a knight is more than just running about in armor and waving your sword around. It is about taking care of the people below you…people that cannot take care of themselves. That is what Beric and the others are doing. Sure, they are not always honorable in everything they do, but at least they are doing something. I don’t know much about my father, but I have never seen him leave his mighty castle to pay a visit to the people of Flea Bottom. Such people like him do not know what it feels to be hungry…That is also what I mean with ‘I shan’t be like him’. I can’t do much….I am just a bastard, buy you…you can do so much more, by playing the role that was assigned to you.”

Arya had listened in silence, nearly pulling off her cloak in rage.

“But I hate that role…I don’t want to be this person everyone wants me to be,” she snapped back. “I want to be a knight…I want,” she continued, but Gendry silenced her with a shake of his head.

“A great many people do not get what they want, Arya,” Gendry said and offered his hand to her. “All we can do is to make the best of the hand we are dealt in life. That is what I am trying here and what you should do with your foolish lord. Stop complaining as if you have it the worst in life. You spent your live growing up in a warm castle without any wants and needs. A great amount of other people cannot say the same.”

Then, he exhaled deeply.

“Now let me show you the way back, my Lady,” he offered warmly, but Arya wanted to hear none of it. She slapped his hand away and walked back alone, bracing herself for her Lady Mother’s chiding.

 _You fool_ , was all she could think as she knocked at the door _. Do what you want. Marry that stupid girl and have a hundred stupid children._

...


	65. The Dragonbinder

**The Dragonbinder**

A storm was coming, the smell of salt, sea and rain filling his nose.

The grey sky and the strong wind blowing from the east was another sure sign of the coming storm. It was the strong current they would need to carry them away from this rotten place.

Victarion had been tasked by his brother Euron to fetch his bride. The Dragon Queen should have been this bride, though Victarion had never intended to relinquish her to his brother.

The hatred he felt for his brother was strong and deep. Euron might have long forgotten about the shame he had caused him by bedding his wife, but Victarion had not forgotten. His memory was as old as the sea.

Taking the Dragon Queen as his bride and claiming the crown of the Seven Kingdoms for his own would have been the sweetest kind of revenge against his brother, but now he had been dealt another, much worse insult, by no other than a woman.

The wife that had besmirched herself by sharing her brother’s bed, he had beaten bloody until she had moved no more, but even that hadn’t been enough to wash away the shame he had felt. No woman would ever insult him thus, he had sworn to himself that day and had never wed again. And now that he had intended to do so again, this had proven unwilling to comply. Of a suitor this the mere girl had spoken, but had given no name. No, instead she had commanded him around like one of her cockless soldiers.

Well, she had been very wrong about that and thus Victarion had left without further hesitation. That the Red Priest had abandoned  him for this girl stung just as deep, but in the end he still had his men and ships, the might of the Iron Fleet. _And my brother’s cursed horn_ , he thought sourly, his rage a black stone in his belly. _What game are you playing with me, brother?_

The Red Priest had told him that he ought to claim the horn with blood. Whatever that meant, Victarion couldn’t say.

 _My strength rests with the Iron Fleet_ , Victarion reminded himself and swept his gaze over the black sea and ships that were left to him.

He had sailed from the Shields with ninety-three, of the hundred that had once made up the Iron Fleet, a fleet not belonging to a single lord but the Seastone Chair itself, and captained and crewed by men from all the Iron Islands.

They were ships much smaller than the great war dromonds of the greenlands, but thrice the size of any common longship, with deep hulls and savage rams fit to meet the King’s fleet in battle, but arguably not enough to face the five-hundred galleys to face the  Volanteen. No, in the end it had been dragonfire that had vanished these mighty fleet.

That had stung even deeper and brought him back to his brother’s cursed horn.

This girl had refused him, but with these dragons bound to his command he wouldn’t have need of her nor his brother. He could take everything he had ever wished for.

 _It is the only way to keep my pride_ , he thought bitterly and lifted his hand. It was black and charred, but the pain had subsided. Whatever the Red Priest had done with his hand had worked, though he couldn’t show it to anyone. His oh so brave men were afraid of magic like old men were afraid of bad harvests and long winters. _I cannot return to my brother with empty hands._

Before him lay the dark sea, stretching endlessly, but behind him lay the shores of Slaver’s Bay. Even from after he could still see the pyramids with their overbearing heights. Above them soared the dragons. One was black, one was green and the one was as pale as the spray of the sea.

The biggest of the three was the black one. _The Dragon Queen’s beast_ , he knew. It was the one he desired for himself.

Six of his men, Burton Humble, Quellon Humble, Nute the Barber, Longwater Pyke, Ragnor Pyke, Tom Tidwood and Rymolf Stormdrunk, were carrying the horn unto deck, the dusky woman following after them with a glimmering latern in hand.

She too had been a gift by his brother. He should have killed her, but instead he had kept her as his bedwarmer as she was a woman of great beauty. Her skin was of a beautiful charcoal-and-earth color, but due to her lacking tongue, another curtesy by his brother, she was quiet, biddable and compliant, all traits Victarion liked in his women. He had even confided his innermost thoughts to her, this woman that lacked sense and a tongue in equal measure.

 _I ought to sacrifice her_ , he thought. _I will have need of the Drowned God’s blessing._

Yet, something held him back, as he watched the men bring forth the horn.

The horn was six feet long and must have been made from the bones of an enormous dragon. When touched the horn always felt warm and smooth. Its surface was shiny, its bands covered with strange writings, Valyrian glyphs if he recalled correctly.

Its sound was terrible, the glyphs glowing red-hot and white-hot whenever it was sounded.

At last, Wulfe One-Ear brought forth two of the slaves they had captured. He had intended to set them free as a favor for his young bride, but he had need of them now. His brother might be senseless enough to sacrifice his mute madmen, but Victarion was no such man.

One of the slaves was a dusty-skinned man with thick arms and scars littering his feet and arms. The marks of a whip.

His fair hair also betrayed his Lysean ancestry. The woman had hair as dark as ebony, instead of the silver locks so common among the Lysean, but her amethyst eyes, like the Dragon Queen’s, betrayed her Valyrian roots.

The Red Priest had used the blood of Lysean to work his magic and had told him to claim the dragonhorn with blood.

 _The Red God shall have his sacrifice_ , he thought as he freed his dagger.

He grabbed the girl by the neck with his charred hand and her wrist with the other. Then, he turned to Wulfe. “Hold her still. Its like trying to wrangle with a monkey. You know how much I hate these beasts.”

“Aye,” Wulfe replied and grabbed the girl from behind, holding her still.

She struggled and whimpered, but Victarion was no man prone to pity. He cut her throat as able as a butcher, warm blood gushing over his hand and cloak and boots. Victarion had Longwater Pyke gather the liquid in a cup, before they tossed the girl’s body into the sea.

The liquid was still red and warm when he handed the goblet to the Lysean slave.

“Drink,” he commanded in Bastard Valyrian. “Drink, or you will die like her.”

It was another lie, but Victarion couldn’t care less about this fool. He held no love for slavery, but the slaves themselves meant nothing to him. They were weaklings and allowed others to treat them like sheep. Victarion would rather die than to live like that.

The man understood him well enough and drank deeply, the warm blood dripping unto his chest and floor.

He gagged, but his fear kept him drinking until he had emptied he cup.

“Now blow the horn,” Victarion ordered and pointed at his brother’s gift. “Blow it and you shall live.”

It was another lie, for Victarion recalled well how one of his brother’s mutes had blown the horn and had perished by doing so.

Yet, the man in front of him didn’t know that.  He was like a sheep before its butcher.

Victarion clenched his burned fist in anticipation, as the man brought his lips to the horn and blew.

The sound of the horn was bright and baneful, a shivering hot scream that made a man’s bones thrums from within.

Victarion felt the urge to cover his ears, but forced himself to watch as the Lysean slave struggled to sound the horn, his cheeks so puffed out that they looked ready to burst.

As before, the glyphs started to burn, every line and letter glowing with white fire.

Once more the horn was sounded, before the man fell breathless to the ground, no longer moving.

Victarion stepped over him, making his way to the prow of the ship. Below him the sea gushed and the wind howled, blowing his loose hair into his face.

He narrowed his gaze against the dying sun, buttery light touching his skin.

It was a feeling he despised. The warmth of the sun he had hated ever since he was a young boy. He preferred rain and storms, just as he preferred scowls over laughing.

At last, when the sun was kissing the horizon, the song of a single dragon rang in Victarion’s ears.

It was only one dragon, the smallest of the three, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Victarion did not look back as he gave the order to set sail, the dragon circling over the mast of the ship like a moth around a flame.

It was time to go home.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Jon


	66. Uncertainty

**Jon**

“What can we do now?”

Daenerys’s cheeks were as pale as fresh-fallen snow. Not even the crimson dress she had donned could conceal her wroth.

Neither Jon nor the others knew what to make of the incident with the dragons. Suddenly, they had grown mad attacking each other and burning two of the guardsmen alive.

What was worse. Neither Dany nor Jon had been able to calm the dragons.

Now, their anger had finally settled, but Viserion’s disappearance had saddened his brothers just as much as it had saddened Daenerys. She tried to hide it from him, putting on her queenly mask, but Jon knew that she had wanted to leave on the very same day to hunt down the treacherous kraken that had stolen one of her children. Not even Aegon’s actions had upset her so much.

Jon hadn’t been there when Daenerys had spoken to Victarion Greyjoy, but she had told him what her offer had entailed. It had been generous, all things considered, but it seemed that had not been enough for the prideful Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.

“We ought to sail for Westeros as soon as possible, your Grace,” said Ser Jorah Mormont. “To hunt down the dragonstealer and to make sure that this Aegon doesn’t take the crown from you. Since Quentyn Martell joined him, it is very likely that Dorne will support him in his endeavor and who knows how many more allies he will have gathered around him when we arrive in Westeros.

“I would love to pack up my things and sail for Westeros,” Daenerys replied and leaned over the table where they had spread several maps. They showed Westeros, the land Daenerys’ father and Jon’s grandfather had once ruled over. “But we will have need of provisions. That is another reason I intend to sail for Volantis and Pentos.”

Ser Jorah looked displeased, but accepted his Queen’s decision without question. “As you say, your Grace, but I say ‘the more time we lose the worse it will be’. Once this boy is seated on the throne the harder it will be to remove him.”

“There is still Stannis Baratheon to consider, “ Ser Barristan added solemnly. “He won’t relinquish the throne without a fight, but given that Victarion Greyjoy acquired one of the dragons we should also take the Ironborn into consideration.”

“And my brother,” Tyrion Lannister added, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “Jaime won’t simply bow down to you nor will Stannis. It will be a difficult situation.”

Daenerys’ demeanor had tensed at the mention of the Kingslayer.

“Your brother means nothing to me. I know what kind of a monster my father was, but he is still an oathbreaker. I shan’t show him mercy if he fights me.”

If Tyrion was displeased by Daenerys’ hard words it didn’t show on his face. No, his ugly face was as unreadable as ever.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tyrion said, his gaze darting back to Jon’s mother, Lady Lyanna, who had listened in silence to their discussion.“I think there is something I must tell you. Something about my brother.”

His mother looked torn. She hadn’t spoken much since they had returned to Meereen. Aegon’s actions had affected her deeply.

_She raised him as her own_ , Sansa had told Jon in attempt to calm his anger. _His actions must hurt her._

Jon hadn’t cared about that, though. It had only increased his already tense feelings for his mother.

It wasn’t like he wanted to kill Aegon. Maybe give him a bloody nose for trying to steal Daenerys’ dragons, but not kill him. No, killing was not something Jon cherished, though he might very well be forced to do it if Aegon threatened those he cared about.

His Lady Mother lifted her gaze and graced Dany with a hesitant smile.

“You ought to listen to, Lord Tyrion. Towards the end of his reign, your brother Rhaegar despised his Lord Father. The only thing that held him back from killing him was their blood relation, though in the end I suppose even Rhaegar couldn’t have taken the crown without slaying his own Sire. That said, I believe Ser Jaime had good reasons for killing and your brother would have most likely forgiven him for doing so.”

Daenerys frowned, her knuckles turning white as she clutched the table beneath her.

“I do not understand. Speak plainly, Lord Tyrion. What reason could your brother have had to slay my father and abandon his duty to protect my brother’s wife and children? I have heard only tales, but Ser Barristan helped shaping them into a clearer picture. This is how I have heard the tale: After Ser Jaime had slain my Lord Father with his golden sword he had taken a seat on the throne while his Lord Father was happily sacking the city.  Pray tell me, why should I have pity for such a man?”

“Because King Aerys wished to burn the city with wildfire,” Lord Tyrion replied. “At least, that is what Jaime told me and my brother, despite his many faults, wouldn’t lie to his own blood.”

Daenerys mouth fell open, silence reigning supreme. Ser Jorah glowered, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. His Lady Mother was silent, her arms crossed in front of her. Tyrion made a tense expression, his strangely-colored eyes seeking Jon’s gaze across the table, as if he was hoping for his support. Yet, the most shocked appeared to be Ser Barristan. He looked as if he had aged by a decade.

“This…your Grace,” the old knight stuttered, his blue eyes flickering from Lord Tyrion to his Queen. “This cannot be true.”

“Rhaegar always feared his father’s rash character, Ser Barristan,” his mother added softly. “It was the very reason he hid away for so long after he had saved me from King Aerys’ henchmen. I suppose burning down the King’s Landing with wildfire was more or less an act of despair with Tywin Lannister standing before his doors. I do not think Lord Tyrion is lying.”

This was something Jon and his mother agreed on. He didn’t know much about his grandfather King Aerys, but his rash actions didn’t speak for him. He had murdered his Uncle and Grandfather, a Lord Paramount and his heir, without even considering the consequences. Desperate enough, even common men could turn into monsters. What then would a mad man do who thought himself a dragon? To burn everything to ashes seemed quite reasonable.

Even so, he felt for Daenerys. Nobody wanted to name such a man his father. Jon, who had yet to make up his mind about his blood father, was luckier in that regard. His father was a stranger to him, but at least he hadn’t been a madman.

“Even so,” Daenerys said after she had exhaled deeply, her violet eyes lowered unto her trembling hands. “Your brother abandoned his duty. Ser Arthur Dayne and the other men of the Kingsguard died fighting for their King and Prince, yet your brother shunned his duty and sat by while his Lord Father’s went about to murder innocents. That I cannot forgive.”

“My brother saved thousands,” Tyrion Lannister insisted, something like anger glinting in his two-colored eyes. “And I doubt he would have been able to stop my father’s men…he would have died unnecessarily. Let me put it more bluntly, your Grace. You are prepared to forgive a man who knelt to Robert after kissing the Mad King’s boots for years, but you are not prepared to show understanding for my brother, who saved thousands? This paints you as a hypocrite.”

A flash of anger washed over Daenerys’ violet eyes.

“Be careful what you say,” she warned Lord Tyrion. “My reasons for forgiving Ser Barristan are my own, but your brother is still a Lannister and so are you. The only reason you are not rotting in a dungeon is that I have use for you. As for your brother…I won’t kill him if he doesn’t try to do the same with me. It is simple as that. We are going to fight a war and if you are not up for it, my Lord, then you ought to keep out of this. All I can promise you is this…I shan’t harm you.

She exhaled again and shifted her attention to Ser Barristan.

“You have fought many wars, Ser Barristan. Ser Jorah suggests going straight to King’s Landing. What do you think?”

“Sacking King’s Landing without a base of retreat would be a risky endeavor,” Ser Barristan replied and leaned over the table, his gloved hand moving over the map and stopping at a small island. Dragonstone. “Dragonstone should be the best place for us to land. It has a good port, can withstand a long siege and your dragons would have a wide range of land to live off. Most importantly, we could easily attack the city from there.”

Daenerys seemed to like the idea, a small smile playing on her lips. “It was also my family’s seat. I like the idea,” she said and lifted her gaze to look at Jon. “Yet, I also think we should try to make allies, before we confront our enemies. It wouldn’t take long to reach the North on dragon back? What do you think, Jon?”

“I would advise against this, Daenerys,” Jon countered, her full name foreign to his tongue. He had long gotten used to call her ‘Dany’, but here in front of the others it would be strange. “The Northmen might see it as a threat. I think it would be better to go by ship or to send an envoy. That will give Robb time to prepare.”

Daenerys looked disappointed, biting her lower lip with displeasure.

“Perhaps you are right,” Daenerys agreed. “We should be careful. Well, we won’t know until we have returned.”

“True,” Jon agreed and shifted his attention to the Red Priest, who had watched them from his place next to the brazier. He was always around fire, as if he could not live without it. “But perhaps, our honored Priest could provide us with an answer. You claim to be able to see the future in the flickering flames, don’t you?”

The Red Priest seemed unimpressed by Jon’s mocking tone and smiled confidently.

“I can indeed read the flames. I foretold your return did I not?”

Jon couldn’t help but to frown.

“You did.”

The Red Priest smiled triumphantly. “And I shall not lie. I knew about the tool that bound your dragon to another one’s will. This took is called a dragonbinder, a horn of great power able to bind dragons to the owner’s will.”

“You knew it?” Daenerys asked in shock. “Why did you neglect to warn me?”

The Red Priest shrugged his shoulders as if he had nothing to fear.

“I wasn’t aware that he would be able to use it. The horn doesn’t really belong to him either. It belongs to his brother.”

 “His brother?” Lord Tyrion asked. “Balon?”

“He called him Euron,” the Red Priest replied. “I think I saw a glimpse of this man in the flames. He is like a child playing with magic he doesn’t understand. You should be careful when  confronting him.”

“Should be careful?” Daenerys asked in a perplexed tone. “Are you trying to fool, me Priest? Why not prevent such a misfortune?”

“Either way, it doesn’t matter,” the Red Priest explained. “The signs are clear. The great war is coming.”

“The great war?” Ser Barristan asked again. “Is this about this Azor Ahai you spoke of before?”

“Aye,” The Red Priest confirmed and smiled openly at Daenerys. “Princess Daenerys is Azor Ahai returned. She woke dragons from stone and soon the Great Other will wake from his long slumber to wage a war against us all. Ice against Fire. Darkness against Light. Life against Death. It is a struggle that was fought before and it would have come about with or without my intervention. The horn itself if only a tool and matters not much in the grand scheme of things. This I can promise you.”

With every word spilling from the Priest’s lips Jon grew angrier.

“Speak plainly, Priest. How can we free Viserion?”

The Priest remained calm as ever.

“Simple…you have to destroy the horn.”

“I doubt it will be so simple,” Dany remarked later upon his entrance into her chamber, her voice full of sadness.

Jon wished he knew a way to remove it,  but he knew from his own experience that it wasn’t so easy. Jon knew that better than most.

As he drew closer he, noticed that she was cradling her old crown in her lap. It was a beautiful thing, wrought in the shape of a three-handed dragon. The coils were yellow gold, the wings silver, the heads carved from jade, ivory, and onyx.

“Are you not going to put it on?” Jon asked, lacking the right words.

“Perhaps when we are in Westeros,” Dany replied and lifted her violet gaze to regard him. Even, her hesitant smile couldn’t take away her sadness. “What about you? You will also have need of a crown.”

What she said was true, but by the tone in her voice Jon believed she was teasing him.

“When we are wed,” Jon confirmed and knelt down beside her. “I suppose then I shall have need of a crown…it is just strange to think like that. Well, I would choose a simpler one than yours, but I think for the time being it would be best to keep away from wearing crowns. Robb’s bannermen are stubborn people and might take it the wrong way. The fact that I am oathbreaker might make it seem pretentious for me to wear a crown. And then I will also have to get used to call myself Aemon Targaryen.”

“You don’t have to fret about that,” Dany assured him and covered his burned hand with her own. “To me you will always be Jon.”

Jon didn’t know why, but he felt relieved to hear that. “That is good to know, but I don’t mind being called Aemon. Maester Aemon and Aemon the Dragonknight were good men, it just feels strange. A bit like pulling of your old clothes and put on new ones.”

Dany nodded her head in understanding.

“It feels the same for me,” Dany admitted hesitatingly. “I don’t know much about Westeros beyond what Viserys told me and Aegon has a good start. I doubt I will be welcomed with open arms. Just like you.”

Jon couldn’t help but to agree with her, but felt the need to cheer her up. He wanted to see her smile.

“Well, we can still go back here if you don’t like it in Westeros. I am sure Ben Plumm and Daario won’t mind going back to being simple sellswords.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened in shock.

“What about Winterfell? What about your home?”

Jon chuckled.

“You think Lady Stark will want me there?” he asked, old bitterness bursting forward, but forgotten when he saw her soft smile. “Robb will always be my brother, but at the end of the day Lady Catelyn will always his mother. That will always stand between us, but that is not the only reason…you are my family now.”

Daenerys nodded her head, her amethyst eyes wet with tears as she leaned in to kiss him.

“And our child,” she added in the same breath, leaning on his shoulder, seeking comfort. “But Viserion is also my child and I shall take him back…with fire and blood. The Ironborn man will come to rue the day he took him away from me.”

Jon had never heard her speak thus icily, but he would probably feel the same way if Ghost had been taken from him.

“As you said before…I do not think it will be that easy,” Jon cautioned her. “I do not like this Red Priest, but we should be careful.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify: Ben Plumm and Daario don't rule Meereen and Yunkai. They are just going to command the troopes that Dany is going to leave in the cities. A coucil will rule the city, as mentioned in Dany's last chapter.
> 
> The Tattered Prince goes with Dany and so do a great majority of the Unsullied and the Dothraki. She also got some slave soldiers from Volantis and from Meereen and her two dragons.


	67. The Bloody Gate

**Sandor**

“Stop your fussing, Darry! Next you want me to suck from a woman’s tits!” Sandor couldn’t help but to complain as Darry had unwound the clean cloth for the third time. He insisted on changing the bandages two times a day and Sandor was glad for it, but at times he was more annoying than his lady mother had been when he was a wee boy.

What angered him the most was that the wound was his own fault. He had been horrible drunk as he had started a brawl in a tavern over some bloody wench. The three fools that had attacked him had died a sweet death, but had hurt Sandor. Darry had found him a week turn later, half-death and starved as he had tried to steal potatoes. One of the brothers of the Quiet Isle had nearly bloodied Sandor with his spate, but Darry had stopped them and had nursed him back to health.

Yet, that constant fretting wasn’t the most annoying thing about Darry. The worst was that Sandor owed the bloody fool his life.

“Hold still,” Darry insisted firmly and held unto his arm, as he slowly wound the clean bindings around his arm. “You are acting like a babe.”

“And you are acting like a bloody woman,” Sandor complained again and held still for a change. He wanted this to be over with as soon as possible. “When will this nonsense stop?”

“A few more weeks. Now hold still,” Darry insisted calmly. That was another thing that annoyed Sandor about the bloody fool. His constant smiles and calm demeanor. How could someone, who had such a shit life, smile all the time? Darry hadn’t told him much about his previous life, but Sandor knew that he had lived the life of a lord. Despite being a younger son he had been allowed to become a knight, instead of forging a chain or joining the faith as the bloody fool had probably wanted. He had been wed too or so Darry had told him once. _She was comely, but not particularly virtuous_ , he had told him. Sandor had wanted to slap him over the head and tell him what a lucky bastard he had been. Who wouldn’t want a lusty woman? Ser Robin Darry of course, the High Septon of the Quiet Isle.

“Are you done?” Sandor asked when Darry finally fastened the bindings.

Then, he smiled at Sandor. “I am done.”

Sandor was glad for it and dressed as quickly as his shoulder allowed. His wound had been fully healed or so he had believed, but of course, fate had decided to piss into his broth and the bloody mountain people, or whatever they were called, had to attack them.

It had been thirty, all of them as ugly as the Imp and armed with axes and spears, who had fallen upon them like wild animals. They had screamed like a whore as they had tried to pommel Sandor with their little axes and spears. Sandor had bashed their heads with his shield and had hacked them apart easily, as none of these fools had worn appropriate armor or protection beyond helmets and leather armor.

Sandor had killed six of them, among them even a woman, though she had been so ugly that Sandor hadn’t been sure about her sex. The Crowfucker had killed four of them while sitting atop his horse and Darry, the bloody fool, had killed only two, sparing the women. Given his fear of bedding them, Sandor was surprised that he had done so, but when he had asked him he had blabbered something about showing mercy to the softer sex. Even, Lady Stark’s brotherhood of pig farmers had proven able to kill, though two had died by getting their heads bashed in. It was no great loss for the world, but Thoros had insisted on a bloody funeral and thus their travel to the Bloody Gate had been delayed for another day.

Now, they had finally arrived at the Bloody Gate, after enduring two days of pouring rain.

Sandor had seen most of Westeros in his early years, but the Eyrie was foreign land to him. The Bloody Gate held a fearsome name, but now that he had laid eyes on it he felt disappointed.

The high road narrowed where it met the Bloody Gate, two twin watchtowers joined by a covered bridge of grey stones that arched above the road.

The castle was well-fortified, though. There were plenty of slits in the tower, bridge and battlements that allowed to fight enemies from below. It was also big enough to hold at least a few thousand men.

As the Bloody Gate was only opened at dawn and at nightfall, they had been forced to camp in front of the gates for half the day, though for Sandor it had been a well-deserved rest.  They had chosen a cliffy slope, where they had erected their tents. Trees grew also there, providing them with a certain amount of protection against the autumn drizzle.

The smell of cookfires and roasted meat filled Sandor’s nose as he swept his gaze over the camp. Lady Stark and her daughter had slept surrounded by their guardsmen and brotherhood of pig farmers. Sandor and several others had been assigned to keep watch, a task he had welcomed. He held not much love for the Stark woman, for she reminded him of the little bird and his failure in saving her from the lions.

 _I should have killed the little shit King when I had the chance and smuggled her out of the Red Keep,_ he thought and took a swag from his waterskin. It was watered wine, but better than nothing. _Then little bird’s mother would have wept and thanked me for my efforts. Perhaps I would have even been able to secure myself a position among her son’s men._

The thought made him laugh as he tried to imagine his cursed brother’s smile when he saw him fighting among the wolves.

“The girl hates you,” the Crowfucker remarked and caused him to lift his head. He was seated across him, the fire bathing his face in golden flames. “She dreams of slitting your throat.”

At first, Sandor didn’t know who the Crowfucker was referring to, but when he saw the little Stark runt glowering at him over her shoulder, he understood.

Sandor laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “You think I am afraid of that little runt and her toy sword?”

“No,” the Crowfucker replied, his dark eyes narrow slits as she brushed his hand over the crow’s head that sat perched on his shoulder. He felt his mouth water when he looked at the bird. Roasted crow was delicious treat he hadn’t tasted since the Rebellion.”I don’t think you are afraid, but I think you are feeling the sharp sting of guilt.”

Sandor blinked once, twice and a third time. He believed that he had misheard.

“Guilt? Me? For what?”

“For killing this butcher boy,” the Crowfucker replied, the expression on his face blank like a mask. “You are trying to conceal your guilt behind rude mockeries, but deep down you are not as bad as you believe.”

What the Crowfucker had said was true. Sandor enjoyed killing men that were stronger than him, but hunting little boys had never been to his taste. That was a sport his brother enjoyed, but he had been the Prince’s sworn sword and had to obey the Queen’s command, least he would have lost his position.

“It was a bloody business,” he admitted. “I did not enjoy it. Killing children is like killing pups. It leaves a sour taste in your mouth.”

“It’s called guilt,” Darry added with amusement and sat down cross-legged in front of the fire, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders. “A gift by the Seven. It shows that you are not as evil as you believe, my friend.”

“I am not your friend, Darry,” Sandor corrected him. “And I don’t give a flying fuck about the Seven. You should know that by now.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I will stop trying,” Darry added and stirred the flames. The Hound recoiled from the fire. He liked warmth as much as everyone, but he hated the flames.

“You are afraid of fire,” the Crowfucker asked him one of his many bloody questions. “Why?”

Sandor wanted to tell him to fuck himself, but he knew that this would be no use.

He also didn’t have anything better to do.

“Do you see this scar?” Sandor asked and pointed at his greatest shame. “My brother gave it to me when I was a little boy. I wanted to play with one of his toys and he found that unacceptable. Well, that was it. Since then, I can’t stand looking at fire. It’s the reason I told King Joffrey to fuck himself. Who wants to get burned by wildfire? I rather die by a blade to my guts while pissing myself than to be burned alive. You cannot even imagine the pain of fire.”

“I can imagine a great many things,” the Crowfucker added indifferently, but his dark eyes were suddenly alive. It looked as if a candle had been lightened in the darkness. “And that brother of yours? What is his name again?”

“Gregor Clegane,” the Sandor replied quickly. “Even a headless man like you must have heard of him? His bloody reputation speaks for him. Mayhaps you have heard of him under his common name…the Mountain.”

The Crowfucker’s black eyes changed back to its unreadable expression as he touched is brow, a painful expression washing over his features. “I think I have met him before…a long time ago.”

“You are lucky that you are still alive,” Sandor snorted. “My brother must have either liked you or found you too unimportant to kill.”

“You hate him,” the Crowfucker stated the obvious. Then, he averted his gaze and clenched his teeth. “There was someone I hated as much as him. I think it was my father…” he trailed off.

“Most of us have shit fathers,” Sandor couldn’t help but to agree. He couldn’t remember his. “What did he do? Whack your ass too often?”

The Crowfucker shuddered as he lifted his gaze. “He used to rape my mother in front of me. I don’t recall her face, but I recall her cries. I hated him ,but I couldn’t kill him because I was too weak…I didn’t want to be Kinslayer.”

“Kinslayer my ass,” Sandor snorted. “Only fools like Darry care about such things. I would gladly cut my brother’s throat to repay him for his gift if I ever get the chance. You should have killed that old man of yours and cut off his cock.”

Darry gave him a damning look, but Sandor pointed at his scar.

“You wouldn’t act like that if someone gave you such a pretty scar,” Sandor snapped. “Besides, the world would be a better place without my cunt of a brother.”

“You would taint your soul only further,” Darry chided him, but Sandor cut him off.

“My soul is already lost, Darry. I am going to hell…so much is sure. My brother as well. Will be pretty small down there once we both arrive there.”

“Even more reason for me to save your soul,” Darry replied. “Well, I won’t give upon you, brother.”

“Whatever,” Sandor grumbled and emptied the last bits of wine into his throat. The wine had helped to dull his mind enough to make him sleepy.

Rising to his feet, he gave the two fools another smile. “I am going to take a piss and settle down for sleep for a few hours. Don’t tell the others.”

Then, he went to piss in the underwood, before going to sleep.

At the break of dawn, Darry woke him from his slumber. Sandor felt the urge to slap him, but held himself back when he realized that someone had finally arrived on the bridge connecting the two towers.

Sandor didn’t believe his eyes when he realized that it was no other than Ser Bonifer Hasty.

He was a thin man with melancholic dark eyes, but his pale cloak fastened with a silver pin, in the form of the Seven-Pointed-Star, gave him an appearance of elegance.

The more important question was: What was he doing here?

_He probably didn’t like Stannis Red Whore. Did he bring his Holy Hundred as well?_

“Who wants to pass beneath the Bloody Gate?”

“Lady Catelyn Stark and her sworn swords,” Ser Ryger answered. “Do we have your permission, Ser?”

Recognition washed over Ser Bonifer Hasty’s face as he noticed Lady Stark’s presence.

He smiled politely as he addressed the Lady.”You are wise to travel with sharpened swords. The lands are dangerous these days. May I ask where you are travelling?”

“To Runestone,” Lady Stark explained. “I am to go there on behalf of my son, Robb Stark, the Heir to Winterfell.”

Ser Bonifer seemed pleased by this answer. “Lord Royce is a pious man. I am sure your cause is worthy. You may pass, my Lady.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once, I would have loved to get a Targaryen spin-off aka Dance of Dragons, but do I want to watch another woman getting villified for wanting power? No.
> 
> Do I want Aegon the Conqueror burning shit and getting cheered for it while Dany gets villified for it. No. 
> 
> HBO can keep his shit to themselves. They won't get a dime for me.
> 
> Besides, what is the point? House Targaryen is dead. And House Stark is a House of morons. I hope both spin-offs fail. They deserve no less.
> 
> And I am not even someone who is usally into this feminist movement stuff. I have a simple view on women and men. Both can be morons and good people. There is no difference, beyond inclinations for certain professions and maybe beahviour formed through hundreds years of evolution. At the end of the day, they are just people. Woman want just as much power as men, yet it is seen as unnatural for a woman to do so.
> 
> If what Daenerys did in the show was done by a man all of these haters would cheer for her. Well, that said. I have seen other shows where woman were not called mad for pursuing more than just motherhood, which is why I do not care for George's overly nihilistic world. I mean look at his books? Most women go either crazy, die in childbirth or are abused.


	68. Girls

**Daenerys**

Dany gasped softly after she had pricked her finger for the third time that evening.

“Damn you,” she cursed the needle and brought her bleeding finger to her lips. When she had sucked off all the blood, she frowned and eyed the piece of garment spread over her lap. They were made from rabbit and lion pelts and Dany had tried her best to sew them together according to Irri’s explanations, but that had proven harder than expected.

“It is not so bad,” Sansa Stark added and picked the garment from her lap. It was meant to be a cloak and Dany had certainly managed to sew the pieces together in a way that it resembled such a cloak, but looking at the result she had the feeling that the cloak would fall apart the moment she tried to put it on.

“It just needs a bit of improvement…here…and there,” the younger girl added cheerfully and pointed at the places where Dany’s needlework had failed. “I can do it?”

Dany graced the girl with an encouraging smile. She was Jon’s cousin, but he still considered her a sister, which was why Dany wanted to win her friendship. “Jon told me much about the North. I will have need of a proper cloak.”

“So will the Unsullied and the Dothraki,” Lady Lyanna added. She was seated across Dany, Ghost sprawled behind her, where a hot brazier sizzled and kept the chill at bay. Their days had been full of sunshine and the winds had pleased Admiral Groleo

“What you say is true,” Dany agreed and watched as Sansa was correcting her work. Truly, it was humbling to see her do it so quickly. Jon’s sister was as capable with her needle as Jon was with his blade. “Once, we arrive in Volantis I shall buy all furs and pelts I can find. The Unsullied can make warm clothing from it. The Dothraki women can help too. Most are as capable as Irri.”

Sansa gave Dany an astonished look, her graceful eyebrows rising to the top of her head. She was a pretty girl with a finely-shaped face, shining auburn hair and bright blue eyes. She showed little resemblance to Jon, though.

“The Unsullied can make clothing?”

Dany couldn’t help but to smile. She was proud of her Unsullied. “They can do a great many things. Their Masters trained them to withstand the greatest hardships, but warriors need to be able to do more than just kill. The most important thing is that they are self-reliant. Making clothing is part of it.”

Sansa blushed. Whether it was embarrassment or displeasure, Dany couldn’t say, but she remained polite as ever.

“I do not know much about war,” she explained. “But what I have tasted of it wasn’t very pleasant. The siege of King’s Landing was frightening. I wasn’t there to behold the fighting, but Lord Tyrion gave me the details. King Stannis’ fleet was devoured by wildfire…,” she trailed off and shudder as if she had recalled a particularly vicious memory.

Then, she averted her gaze, her voice slightly strained. “The Queen Mother had us all watched by Ser Illyn Payne…he was tasked to kill us if the enemy took the city.”

“But you escaped,” Lady Lyanna prodded softly, continuing with her own work. A pale dress made of soft cotton.

Dany’s first impression of Jon’s mother had been that she held no love for womanly activities, but it seemed she had misjudged her.

Sansa swallowed hard and lifted her head again, realizing that Ghost was suddenly there, his wet nose brushing against her cheek. Sansa chuckled and patted his ear.

“Thank you, Ghost. Now I am feeling much better.”

Ghost gave a soft howl in return and prowled over to Dany’s side, curling up beside her. Dany appreciated his presence and brushed her hand over his beautiful white fur. It was soft and warm at once. It was an evil thought, but she wished she could have proper fur like this for her men. Knowing Irri, she would soon have her winter cloak ready, made of the pelt she had bought and the Hrakkar Drogo had killed for her. At first, she had wanted to leave it behind in Meereen, but it would be a waste and would forever give her a sweet memory of her time with the Dothraki.

“I never asked you, Lady Sansa,” Dany broke the silence that had settled over them. “How different is life at court in Westeros compared to Essos? I am honest, I do not know much about Westerosi customs. I ought to adapt, but I do not know how.”

Sansa gave her a hesitant look, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of Dany’s question. Yet, her answer was as considerate as always.

“My time at court was only brief, but the ladies at court entertained themselves with music, hawking and embroidery. Do you have any knowledge about these pleasures?”

Dany could only shake her head. “I tried to learn the lute, but wasn’t very gifted. Well, I am a good rider and know who to use a bow.”

Sansa had nodded her head approvingly, her red braids falling into her face.

“Archery is not uncommon. I also doubt anyone will expect you to play music for them, though I suppose it would help to link your claim to your brother…Prince Rhaegar,” she added and looked at Lady Lyanna. “They say he was an excellent harpist.”

Lady Lyanna smiled curtly and put her work away.

“Rhaegar was a good harpist,” Lady Lyanna confirmed. “If he had his way, he would have pursued the profession of a minstrel, but sadly he was born as the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Dany was disappointed to hear that her brother had detested his position as Prince. Ser Barristan had told her something similar, but she had thought it had more to do with her brother’s tendency for melancholy.

“Viserys always told me that Rhaegar was a true warrior. He told me that he won many tourneys. Yet, Ser Barristan told me something different. He said that Rhaeger never liked killing and preferred singing over fighting. He also said that he didn’t have it in him to be happy. He believed the Tragedy of Summerhall was the cause for his sadness.”

“Rhaegar had his melancholic moments, but he could smile. What you say is true, though. Rhaegar was a good swordsman and an excellent jouster, but he held not much love for the pursuit of war,” Lady Lyanna explained, her grip tightening on her tunic.

“I heard he was also quite bookish,” Dany prodded, trying to prolong their conversation, despite Lady Lyanna’s obvious discomfort about the matter. “Ser Barristan said so.”

Lyanna nodded her head and brushed her brown hair out of her face. It was now reaching to her chin and it seemed that the length annoyed her. It made Dany wonder why she hadn’t cut it, but then she had also started to sew one dress after another. It looked as if was trying to regain something of her old identity.

_It must be hard to go home after so many years. And to face her family…_

Dany grew anxious whenever she thought of meeting Jon’s family, but perhaps revealing the truth about her brother and Lady Lyanna might help to ease their grudge against House Targaryen.

“Ser Barristan is right again,” Lady Lyanna confirmed. “Rhaegar was mad about books. He loved tales…Gods, there was not a single tale he didn’t know, be it from Essos or the North.”

Dany smiled, her heart filling with a burst of warmth. She had imagined Rhaegar as a grim and joyless man, but it seemed he was not so different from Dany.

“What tales was he interested in?”

Lady Lyanna chuckled and put her hand to her chin as she pondered Dany’s question.

“The tales about the Others and the Long Night,” Lady Lyanna replied. “He was obsessed with them and believed they were linked to an ancient prophecy his grand-grandfather Aegon the Unlikely believed in.”

“Prophecy?” Dany asked, recalling something that Ser Barristan had told her. “The prophecy of the woodswitch?”

Lady Lyanna’s eyes widened in shock.

“You know about the prophecy?”

Dany nodded her head in confirmation. “Ser Barristan…,” she was about to say, but Lady Lyanna’s knowing smile silenced her.

“I see,” Lyanna continued and exhaled deeply. “Well, Rhaegar believed in this prophecy as well. I suppose it is understandable given how he was raised. He also believed that our child was this  Promised Prince. I didn’t share his believes in this matter, but he was so convince about it…So I have never contradicted him either. I loved him…and love makes us blind.”

“I suppose that is true,” Dany added hesitatingly. “But you made me curious. What else did my brother say about this Promised Prince? I only know that this prophecy was the reason my father and mother were forcefully wed.”

Lady Lyanna bit her lips. Then she spoke, her grey eyes flickering from Sansa to Dany.

“Rhaegar didn’t tell me everything, but I know that he believed that the Others from the tales are real. He also believed that they would come back and that this Promised Prince would defeat them.”

“And what did you believe?” Sansa asked, regarding her Aunt with great curiosity.

“That there is more to this world than we can know. I have never made the acquaintance of an Other, but then I do not think the Wall was just built to keep the Wildings out,” Lady Lyanna admitted, an uncomfortable smile curling on her lips. “Well, I found it sweet that Rhaegar held so much interest in the North. Most southron people think we are nothing but uncultured barbarians. Thus, I was flattered by his attentions and hearing tales was one of the few things that made him smile. Not just smile…real smiles, full of warmth. Which is why I never contradicted him. It pleased me that I could help him fulfil his dreams. Now I know better. I should have told him not to lose himself to such silly dreams.”

Dany didn’t now what to say to that. Jon would find it ridiculous, but then Jon had not experienced the same things as she did. Dany had survived a burning pyre, had woken dragons from stones and had beheld the visions of the Undying, most of which had come true. Mayhaps her brother was not completely wrong. Mayhaps he just misunderstood the signs?

It had happened to her.

 _For some time I believed that Jon might be the Mummer’s Dragon_ , she thought, yet held back from telling Lyanna about her own experiences.

_There will be enough time for that._

“Even so,” Lady Sansa said. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

Lyanna nodded her head and smiled. It was a smile filled with sadness and regret.

“I did, but I cannot help but to think that if…,” she began, but Dany cut her off.

There was no use in reminiscing about the past. They had to look into the future.

 _If I look back I am lost,_ she reminded himself.

“Whatever faults my brother had, Ser Barristan thinks he would have made a good King…a better King than the Usurper…I like to think that all our lives would have been better if he had lived.”

Sansa nodded her head in agreement. “That for sure. And Joffrey would have never existed. That wouldn’t have been a bad loss for the world.”

Dany laughed. “He must have been a terrible person, indeed.”

“He was a monster,” Sansa explained. “And rotten to the core. He would have made a horrible King. About Robert Baratheon I cannot say much. Father loved him like a brother, but he didn’t lift a single finger when Queen Cersei asked for my direwolf’s head. It was my own fault that it came so, but it still hurt to lose Lady.”

“Robert had the potential to be a great man if he had managed to get a hold of his bad habits,” Lady Lyanna added. “I think whenever my brother was looking at Robert, he saw all this potential and wanted to help him realize it. Sadly, Robert was not the kind of man who ever wanted to put effort in anything that didn’t come easily to him. He was the kind of man who expected that everything would be done for him. Ruling the Stormlands was done by his Seneschal. Finding him a wife was done by my brother. And getting him a crown…now that was probably Jon Arryn’s prodding. Well, I cannot claim to know Robert that well, but there was one thing Rhaegar and he had in common…neither held much interest in ruling.”

“Ser Barristan called Rhaegar capable, dutiful and single-minded,” Dany repeated what Ser Barristan had told her. “So, being Crown Prince was just a burdensome duty for him?”

“I think I used the wrong wording,” Lady Lyanna explained and bit her lips, pondering her answer for a moment. “Have you ever heard the tale about the soft-hearted pig farmer?”

“No,” Dany replied in a perplexed tone. “But I love tales. Please, tell me about this soft-hearted pig framer.”

Lady Lyanna smiled and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, as if she was suddenly in need for warmth.

“The tale is rather simple. There was once a pig farmer who bought a young piglet at a fair. He planned to batten it and butcher it to help his family through winter. Spring came, summer came, autumn came and the pig grew round and fat, but the more time passed the fonder the framer grew of the pig. And when the time came…Well, he couldn’t do it.”

“And what happened to his family?” Sansa asked.

“They starved to death,” Lady Lyanna answered quickly. “Forgive me, for destroying your hopes for a good ending, but it is the only way I can describe Rhaegar. He was a dutiful man, but he had a softness to him that held him back from doing what was necessary. He should have killed your father the first time he laid hands on your mother, yet he couldn’t do it. His damn consciousness held him back. Being King demands hard choices. Above all, he was an idealist who saw the world how he wanted it to be rather than how it really was. I was much the same, which was why I felt drawn to him,” she finished and rose quickly to her feet, leaving them.

“Excuse me,” she said and picked up her dress. “I ought to rest.”

Only when Dany had turned around, did she realize the reason for her hurried departure.

Jon had returned in company of Ser Barristan.

Dany sighed deeply and smiled at Jon.

He looked confused.

Dany sighed in frustration.

Jon had told his mother that he wanted to get to know her, but so far he had not made a single attempt to do so.

She still didn’t know what to make of Lady Lyanna Stark, but her family was already small enough.

She wanted her babe to have more than just parents. She wanted for it to have a grandmother and aunts and uncles…a big family like Dany had always dreamed of when she was being mistreated by Viserys.

It seemed Dany had her work cut out for her.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write a chapter where I can bring up the prophecy stuff and for the ladies to bond, especially Dany and Sansa.
> 
> When Dany is asking for advice from Sansa she is doing it partly to become friends with her and partly because she is honestly asking for advice. I know Dany was born in Westeros and all, but she has never been there. People have different mindsets, customs and clothing there. Dany might consider changing her wardrobe...and no silly lack and leather clothing. Proper Westerosi garb.
> 
> As for Rhaegar...well I do not know what he was like so I am just writing him the way I think he was. He is slightly inspired by Arthur from Warlord Chronicles (an idealistic and lovable guy who makes some really stupid decisions) and Prince Josua from Memory, Sorrow and Thorn, mostly because they have a lot of similarities.
> 
> Warlord Chronicles is a gritty retelling of the King Arthur story. Arthur is in fact a bastard in that story. He still has a pretty sword, but there is no Lady of the Lake and Merlin is lusty bastard. His wife is basically Cersei, only with brain and he pulls an Robb and nearly gets everyone killed. Several characters even voice what a moron he is at times, but even so you cannot help but to like him. He also lacks the ability to do what is necessary...aka killing Mordred and Lancelot aka Joffrey.
> 
> Prince Josua is on the other hand a second son who was kinda disliked for his father and brother (for reasons that are revealed later in the story) and really dislikes playing King. He is a bookish guy and good swordsman, but dislikes war and killing. He also has a bit of Stannis in the way he is trying to do his duty, but kinda does it with a lot of teeth-clenching involved. Funnily, he also steals another guys betrothed and marries a Wildling/Gypsy/Dothraki woman...who is very stubborn and diffcult to handle.


	69. Shadows and Flames

**The Red Woman**

The flames were dancing in front of her eyes and the heat was caressing her skin ever softly. Melisandre loved the warmth of the flames and the colors blurring together to provide her with a glimpse of the future. It was the blessing of R’hllor she had hoped to receive by coming here, but in these early winter days the holy flames were showing her nothing but shadows.

 _Who is Azor Ahai_ , she had beseeched the flames a thousand times. _Will Stannis be successful? Will he prevail against his enemies?_

Such thoughts were fluttering through her mind, but no answer wanted to present itself to her. No vision, not even a glimpse.

Exhaling deeply, she picked up the sharp blade she always kept close, cutting deep into her skin and drawing blood. She quenched her hand to a fist, allowing the blood to dripple into the golden cup beside her. When she was done, she wrapped up her arm with a white cloth and poured the blood into the flames. The flames stirred, hissing and sizzling like an old woman. They changed from yellow to gold and from orange to red. Yet, she saw nothing. No Azor Ahai, no  glimpse of the battle that was sure to come. Nothing.

 _The Great Others’ powers are growing as winter grows stronger,_ she knew and left the flames.

Only a powerful sacrifice could give her the visions she was longing for, but she knew her King would refuse. He was hesitant to agree to such bargains after the death of his brother.

Melisandre couldn’t understand his displeasure. They had succeeded in what they had set out to do: to win Stannis’ crown, though that was only the first step to victory. His true enemy was still hiding in the shifting shadows.

“Lady Melisandre,” a boyish voice called after her, the sound of the creaking door accompanying his entrance. It was her King’s squire and the Onion Knight’s son. The boy was pale of face and brown-haired like his father, but compared to his willful progenitor  he was a biddable creature and had embraced the teachings of R’hllor. “The King is asking for your presence, my Lady.”

Lady Melisandre graced the boy with a smile and followed him into the anteroom that led down a staircase and into another, larger chamber. It was  a narrow hall with black walls that were covered with dusty tapestries to hide the scorch marks.

It was quite clear what had happened here. Harrenhall had been touched by the holy breath of R’hllor. Melisandre had heard the tale a thousand times, but every time she imagined the flames devouring Harrenhalls’s walls, she felt a warm shudder running down her spine. Then, she always felt like a child recalling a beloved tale from her mother’s mouth.

She had lived for so long, had endured so many hardships and had forgotten much from her early years. Some names she recalled and others she didn’t want to remember, but her first name, her true name she had long forgotten. Her memory was nothing more than a fading candle in a sea of blackness. _Who was I?_ She couldn’t say, for at times it felt as if she had always lived in Asshai. Her god was now her everything and once her purpose was accomplished she could allow herself to join him in the beyond.

A cool breeze made her crimson robes flutter as she entered the burned-out tower, her King had chosen as his chamber. She recalled suddenly that one of the forgotten Targaryen Queen’s had died here. Rhaena, she had been called. Rhaena that had never been Queen, because her brother King Jaehaerys had claimed this birthright as his own.  She had heard the servants whisper that her ghost was still roaming this ancient tower.

_These tales are meant for children lost in the darkness, but not for the follower of the one true god._

She found her King leaning over a large wooden table, his crown placed beside him.  He looked aged, a state caused by the dark magic she had used to bring forth the black shadow that had slain the Usurper. It was a high price her King had to pay, but that was the way of magic.

_King’s blood is power, a way to earn her beloved god’s blessing._

As always, she found her King surrounded by his subjects, some more loyal than others. His Queen and daughter were missing, as he had left them in King’s Landing under the Onion Knight’s protection.

Melisandre didn’t speak as she crossed the room to take her place beside her King. Some of the men, those who have yet to embrace R’hllor, eyed her with mistrust, but such cold looks meant nothing to her.

“You called for me, your Grace?”

“I did,” her King replied as unfriendly as ever, but made space for her to stand beside him. “Now we may begin.”

He swept his gaze slowly over the men he had assembled for his war council.

There was Lord Ralph Buckler, a tall and bulky man with a bright blue cloak wound around his shoulders and fastened with a golden pin. Next to him stood Lord Rolland Caron, formerly the bastard of Nightsong. Her King considered him a seasoned warrior, but Melisandre distrusted him as he was still fiercely devoted to the false gods. Next came, Ser Sebastion Errol, a blond-haired and clean-shaven boy, who had supported her King’s treacherous brother. This boy was a man that couldn’t be trusted either, but her King had need of every sword for the coming battle. He was flanked by Lord Eldon Estermont and his son Ser Aemon Estermont, her King’s kinsmen, both men who lacked trust for the one true god. At last came Lord Alesaner Staedmon, standing out with his bright red cloak and Lord Gulian Swan, an old man with bad eyesight. Both his sons had perished in the war, one fighting for King Stannis and the other fighting for the false lion. Even so, the first Lord had only sided with her King after his treacherous brother had perished by the hand of her shadow creature and the other Lord had been more than hesitant to support her King until the Onion Knight had convinced him otherwise. Only Lord Selwyn of House Tarth and Lord Caspar Wylde of Rainwood had refrained from attending to their King. Lord Selwyn because his daughter had chosen to serve Maegaery Tyrell, Queen to the false Lion King, while the other  Lord had suddenly fallen ill. Of the Riverlords, only the man commonly called the Blackfish, Lord Jason Mallister and Lord Marq Piper had travelled to Harrenhall. He too seemed to dislike Lady Melisandre, but her King had need of him and thus Lady Melisandre tolerated his presence.

“Ser Brynden,” her King addressed the Blackfish. “Tells us what your nephew’s outriders know about the Kingslayer’s latest movements.”

“Nothing has changed, your Grace,” the Blackfish replied and leaned over the table to point on a castle called the Golden Tooth. “The Kingslayer seems comfortable to hide behind his castle walls. He has been calling his troops together, but he has made no attempt to attack or cross into the Riverlands.”

Her King’s face remained unreadable as ever as he shifted his attention to Lord Estermont and his son. “What about the Tyrells? The last thing we heard was that Mace Tyrell sent his troops to Storm’s End. I suppose he is attempting another pointless siege. But what are the rest of Lord Tyrell’s up to? Are there any new developments on this front?”

“There are new developments,” Ser Aemon Estermont confirmed. “It seems Lord Tarly is blocking the Roseroad.”

“And to force me into battle,” her King said and brushed his hand over the colorful stripe that was meant to represent the Roseroad. “The Kingslayer is a coward, but not stupid. I give him that. But Tarly I fear more than Tywin’s golden-haired brat. He defeated my brother…,” he trailed off.

“We also have good tidings, your Grace,” Lord Rolland Caron added. “It seems the Ironborn are continuing their raids in the Reach. It also seems that Lord Hightower has locked himself up in Oldtown, fearing an assault by the Ironborn.”

“Oldtown cannot be taken by the Ironborn scum,” her King grunted in obvious displeasure of being interrupted. “It is better fortified than King’s Landing. Not that I care what the Ironborn scum is doing. I shall put an end to _Lord_ Euron Greyjoy when I am done defeating my current enemies. But now back to my plans for the Kingslayer.”

He looked directly at the Blackfish.

“You want to repay the Kingslayer, don’t you? Well, I think I have a task for you that shall please you.”

The Blackfish gave a polite nod.

“Please tell me about this task.”

“I want you to take your men and do to the Reach what Lord Tywin did to the Riverlands. Build small parties and burn and pillage their lands. That might convince Lord Tyrell to consider his allegiance with the lions. It should also help to lure the Kingslayer into battle. Once he is defeated this war should be over.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Jason Mallister interrupted politely. “Worrisome news have reached us on this account. It seemed the Kingslayer managed to put a child in to Lady Margaery Tyrell.”

Her King’s face changed into a terrible grimace, his dark blue eyes burning with unbridled rage.

“Damn him. Damn him,” her King muttered and tapped his fingers on the table. Melisandre couldn’t bare to see his pain and brushed her hand over his shoulder.

“Your Grace,” she whispered into his ears. “These are dark tidings, but there are ways…,” she began, but her King brushed her hand away and turned back to his Lords.

“The Kingslayer must die before this child is born,” he said in an iron tone that left no room for further questions. “That is our only chance for victory. And to accomplish this goal I must face him in battle. I take no joy in this, but it is the only way, Ser Brynden. Mayhaps, until then your niece is able to secure the Vale for our cause, but for the time being we must rely on the strength we have.”

The Blackfish nodded hesitatingly.

“I see it the same way. The Kingslayer must die. The child is certainly a danger, but much can happen before it is born. By then, Robb might have taken care of the Ironborn cause and I also trust Catelyn will accomplish her task. I am confident we can succeed, your Grace, but if you would…please allow me to make another suggestion.”

Her King gave an approving nod.

“Speak your mind, Ser Brynden.”

“Do not burn the harvest,” Ser Brynden insisted. “Let us gather what we can carry to store it for the coming winter. Let’s see how Lord Tyrell will feel when he is the one that is starving. I heard he the kind of man who enjoys his feasts.”

“He does,” her King said. Most men would have laughed, but not her King. His face remained stoic as ever. “He was enjoying himself while I and Renly…,” he was about to continue, his words failing him.

“Nevermind,” her King waved his hand and met the Blackfish’s gaze once more. “I agree to your request. Gather as much of the harvest as you can. We shouldn’t waste it.”

With these last words, the Lord were gone, leaving only Lady Melisandre and her King.

Melisandre didn’t hesitate to make another attempt to change her King’s mind.

“It is the Tyrell girl that must die,” she told her King, but kept an appropriate distance. “You know that, your Grace. Call for the boy…Edric Storm. His blood…,” she began, but her King grabbed her arm to pull her closer.

Now they were only a few inches apart.

“Do you know what they are whispering about me, woman? The heathen King, who employs a Red Whore as his advisor. I shan’t tarnish my reputation further. This time, I shall win by my own strength. Bastard or not, the boy is my only male heir. I shan’t endanger the future of House Baratheon for your magic. The boy remains where he is. In Lord Davos’ custody.”

Melisandre knew that she had lost this struggle and lowered her gaze.

“As you wish, your Grace.”

…


	70. The Lord of Griffins

**The Hand of the King**

The Captains of the Golden Company and Jon Connington had assembled around their King.  As was custom, Aegon was seated in the middle, flanked by Jon Connington and his cousin Prince Quentyn. Prince Oberyn was seated across him, his niece Princess Arianne seated beside him.

She was to be his King’s wife. Jon disapproved of his King’s decision, but there was naught he could do change his stubborn mind.

 _We will regret trusting the Dornish_ , he was convinced as she swept his gaze over the unrolled map of Westeros. _They are all treacherous Vipers._

“Shall we begin?” Aegon asked impatiently, his bluish gaze flickering from face to face, before coming to rest on Lord Connington.

“Let us begin, your Grace,” Jon agreed and shifted his attention to Harry Strickland, he Captain-General of the Golden Company. “How many men did we lose and how many men do we have?”

“We have five-thousand men light infantry, three-thousand bow and crossbowman, two-thousand men heavy cavalry and six elephants. We also have enough supplies to feed our men for the next four moons,” Strickland supplied with a deep frown. “If you had allowed us to raid more castles we could have gathered more supplies from the enemy.”

“You know why it is necessary,” Jon insisted with little patience for the man in front of him. Not for the first time, he wished that Myles Toyne was still with them. He wouldn’t complain and moan. No, Myles Toyne was the kind of man that did what was necessary. “We can’t have Stannis Baratheon becoming suspicious of our cause. He has to believe that I am nothing but a harmless fool, trying to retake his lands after years of exile. More importantly, the Stormlords’ ignorance shall open the gates to Storm’s End for us.”

“Is that so?” Black Balaq asked. “I have heard that Storm’s End is impregnatable. How is our little ploy going to open the gates for us, Lord Connington?”

Griff heard the mocking ton in his voice, but that meant little to him. A man like him, who had already suffered his greatest failure, felt nothing.

“Besides, we have received reports that the Tyrells are besieging Storm’s End,” Lysono Maar, their spymaster added. “At least ten thousand men.”

Lord Varys nodded his head in agreement, his voice soft as he smiled at Lysono Maar. “So much is true, but I had already informed Lord Connington about this fact.”

“He did,” Lord Connington grumbled, not wishing to look at the Spider. His flowery smell alone was enough to make him wrinkle his nose in disgust. “And I have a plan…a very simple plan.”

Prince Oberyn smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Now you have made me curious, my Lord. I want to hear how we are going to sneak by Mace Tyrell?”

Jon had a hard time keeping his composure, his searching gaze flickering back to his King, who had remained silent and poised throughout the whole exchange. “Do you want to explain our plan, your Grace?”

Aegon smiled at him and then at his Uncle.

“Simple. We are not coming as conquerors, but as defenders. Can you follow, Uncle?”

“I fear not, nephew,” Prince Oberyn added, his dark eyes unreadable as ever. Looking at him, he couldn’t help but to be reminded of Elia Martell, a woman who had never been worthy of his Prince. It made him dislike the man in front of him only more. “Are you going to break the siege by attacking the Tyrells? Sounds easy enough. And I do not deny that the Golden Company is capable. The Fat Flower of Highgarden likes to boast with his superior numbers, but most of them are Knights of Summer, weak boys who have never tasted battle. But how will you get inside? I doubt Stannis Baratheon’s garrison is stupid enough to open the gates for you, even if you are prepared to help them with the pesky roses.”

“So much is true,” Aegon replied with a knowing smile and jerked his head at Lord Varys, who had been the one to provide them with the necessary information about the numbers. “As far as we know, Stannis Baratheon left five-hundred behind. Try to imagine five-hundred men being trapped in a castle for weeks, fearing that they will have to endure another year-long siege. Wouldn’t you delighted to receive help, Uncle?”

His Uncle smiled, confusion showing in his dark eyes. His King was playing a game with the Viper. It was amusing to behold. “So much is true, but you have yet to answer my question…How will you convince them to open the gates for you?”

“Simple. The banner of House Targaryen must remain hidden for the time being. Instead we shall carry the banners of House Baratheon. All golden and shiny. It will be a beautiful sight to behold.”

If Prince Oberyn was impressed, it didn’t show on his face. Instead he remained very quiet and started to tap his fingers on the table in front of him. “A beautiful sight in indeed. But what will you do if they don’t buy your mummery?”

“We have war elephants. That should distract them long enough, for a small force to enter through the grotto beneath the castle.”

“There is a grotto beneath the castle?” Harry Strickland asked in obvious surprise. “How do you know about this?”

“You ought to thank Lord Robert Baratheon for his generosity of spirit. I was often guest in his home to partake in his many feast. It gave me enough time take in the castle’s defenses. I would find the way blindfolded, Strickland.”

“It’s still madness,” Strickland insisted stubbornly. “Utter madness that is going to get us all killed.”

“You gave your vows, a vow paid in gold,” his King reminded Strickland. “I always believed that the Golden Company is known for their loyalty to their paycheck.”

“I am loyal,” Strickland said and averted his gaze. “I am just pointing out the reality at hand. Your plan sounds good on paper, but that doesn’t mean it…,” he began, but his King cut him off.

“Enough. I have heard enough of your doubts.”

Strickland fell silent and the other men laughed.

Jon was proud of his King. He put the fool in his place.

“I like the plan,” Black Balaq added with a broad grin. “It is daring, but young me are supposed to be daring. Young Kings even more so. Will you lead the attack, your Grace?”

 _No_ , Jon was about to say, but Aegon was faster. _No…No…No_

“I shall fight at your side,” Aegon declared proudly. “Nobody shall say that Aegon Targaryen was a coward.”

Jon was bristling with anger, but his King’s words had raised their man’s spirits.

“Spoken like a true King!” the bloody fool Frankly Flowers exclaimed. “Let’s cut some green apples.”

“Calm your tits, Flowers,” Lysono Maar cautioned. “We do not even know if there will be any green apples among these Tyrell men.”

“There are,” Lord Varys added sweetly and earned himself a thankful look from Franklyn Flowers.

“My cock is already growing hard...,” he began, but Jon’s cold look silenced him at once.

“Your Grace,” he addressed his Kin. “I must caution against…,” he began, but Prince Oberyn interrupted him.

“Let the boy to prove his mettle, Lord Connington,” the Prince cooed. “My nephew is no longer a little boy sucking at your tits.”

“Exactly,” Prince Aegon agreed and flashed a disarming smile at Princess Arianne. The sight sent a jolt of horror through Jon Connington’s veins. _The whore has already enticed him_ , he was sure. _I should have placed Duck before the King’s door_. “A King needs to prove his mettle. Or are you doubting my abilities, Lord Connington?”

Lord Connington felt disarmed by his King’s straightforward question.

“Your Grace…,” he said, but Aegon’s piercing gaze silenced him.

“Spare me your doubts, my Lord,” Aegon insisted and smiled confidently. “I shall fight. I shall prove myself.”

Jon sighed.

He couldn’t forbid his King to fight, least he would undermine his authority.

“Good,” Aegon said and sat back down on his cushioned chair. “It seems we have our battle plan.”

“We do,” Lysono Maar agreed. “But what will happen afterwards? My experience tells me that the afterwards is just as important as the before.”

“The answer is simple,” his King replied. “We shall march for the capital and take it from Stannis Baratheon. Lord Varys provided us with reliable reports that he is currently in Harrenhall and will most likely remain there until the Kingslayer shows his face.”

“And then?” Strickland asked. “Taking the capital means nothing. We will have need of allies.”

“One can assume that we will be able to take hostages during the battle at Storm’s End,” Prince Quentyn added almost shyly. “Mayhaps the Tyrells will even see reason and join our cause if we show them that we can win.”

“Perhaps,” Prince Oberyn said sceptically. “I hold no grudge against the Tyrells, but my brother holds not much love for him. And I know Mace Tyrell to be a fickle man that cannot be trusted. He will expect a crown for his daughter, before he gives you any of his pretty swords.”

“We shall see about that,” Lord Varys explained. ”As for now we should try winning this battle.”

“As if that is such an easy feat,” Strickland chuckled drily. “Well, we shall try anyway.”

“We also have Myrcella Baratheon,” Prince Oberyn added softly. “We ought to use her to our advantage. It may sway Jaime Lannister to our side…,” he began, but Aegon cut him off.

“The girl can be used, but the Kingslayer will never be my ally, especially not a man who sat by while my sister and mother were butchered,” Aegon snapped angrily.

 _You foolish boy_ , Jon thought as he saw the tense expression washing over Prince Oberyn’s face. _A wrong step and we could lose everything we have worked for._

Yet, to Jon’s utter confusion, Prince Oberyn started to laugh.

“I like you, my boy,” he said and smiled at Prince Aegon. “You have spirit, I will give you that. Yet, it is not the Kingslayer’s head I desire, but the Mountain’s.”

Aegon paled visible, his knuckles turning white as he stared back at his Uncle. “The Mountain lives?”

“Indeed,” Lord Varys confirms. “Sadly, this gruesome monster is still in Lannister employ. He is now serving a new King.”

A satisfied smile crossed over his King’s lips. “Soon, he will wish that he was never born.”

Jon wanted to caution his King, but the words had already left his mouth.

“The boy has spirit,” Prince Oberyn repeated later, after his King had retired take supper in company of Princess Arianne. “I give him that.”

Jon couldn’t helped but to be annoyed by Prince Oberyn’s lingering presence, but he had brought them a bride and three-thousand Dornish spears.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

“The boy is your King. Call him by his title. Or do you lack even respect for your sister’s blood, Princess Elia?”

Oberyn Martell chuckled. ”Do not council me about my sister. You always hated her, didn’t you? She told me how you were giving her jealous looks. You wanted to fuck the Silver Prince, didn’t you?”

Jon felt the urge to cut the man apart, but instead he clenched his teeth and brought the cup of water to his lips. In such moments he longed for sweet summerwine to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

“I have served my Prince loyally,” Jon insisted and walked to the window, watching the fat moon laughing down at him. “That is all.”

“Love is a strong motivation,” Prince Oberyn said, his voice changing back to a softer tone. “My sister and I used to quarrel like cat and dog. She disliked my whoring. More than once she called me a scoundrel. My mother wanted to arrange a good match for her and trained her as one of your prim and proper court ladies. When she won my sister a match with Prince Rhaegar, all their dreams came true. ‘Elia shall be Queen,’ my mother always said. I was just a young man then, not caring about these matters. Now I am blaming myself for not caring enough. I should have given my mother a piece of my mind about this match and my mother should have never pushed Elia into the arms of our Mad King.”

“This madman was still our King,” Jon replied and turned around, searching Prince Oberyn’s dark gaze. “And the Silver Prince was a better man than you will ever be. Your mother lied to the Queen, concealing your sister’s ill-health, knowing very well what duties were expected of her.”

“Duties my sister carried out,” Prince Oberyn replied icily. “Did she not give your Silver Prince this boy and sweet Rhaenys?”

Jon Connington chuckled bitterly. “And you think King Aerys would have been satisfied with that? No, he would have expected more children. Children your sister couldn’t produce after Prince Aegon’s birth. Stark girl or not, you are deluding yourself if you think that your sister would have ever been Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Tywin Lannister had tried to convince King Aerys more than once to send your sister back to Dorne and to have his son be wed to a more fertile woman. The only reason the King refused was his hatred for his former Hand. My Silver Prince would have done the same, the moment he took the crown and wed the Stark whore or any other woman, able to give him more heirs. That is the truth and you know it.”

Prince Oberyn’s face remained blank as a slate.

“It must anger you that my niece is going to bed your King,” he laughed and threw his head back. “Well, let’s see if my nephew can truly be a King.”

His eyes were wet with tears when he was done laughing.

Jon couldn’t believe his ears.

“What are you trying to imply, Prince Oberyn?”

Prince Oberyn gave him a knowing smile and rose to his feet.

“Nothing.”

Then he was gone, leaving Jon Connington to his own thoughts. Caged by his frustration he had nearly forgotten about to call for Duck.

“Make sure that our King keeps to his own bed,” Jon commanded Duck. “I do not want him do something he might regret. As of now, all bets are open.”

Duck bowed and ruffled his hand through his untidy red hair.

“As you say, my Lord."

...


	71. Manipulations

**Jon**

Jon watched the waves splashing against the prow of the _Rhaenys._ Above him spread an azure sky, the dragons flying their never-ending circles.

Two weekturns ago, they had left Meereen behind them and for two weekturns Jon had suffered the worst kind of sea sickness he had ever experienced. Perhaps it was his anxiety of returning home, but perhaps it was also the presence of the mother he couldn’t bring himself to look at.

He had told her after her first conversation that he wanted to know her, but saying things was easier than doing them. Yet, every time, he had wanted to talk to her he had balked, fearing what she would tell him. She had given him a vague overview of what happened between her and his father, but he had the feeling there were still things she was hiding from him.

_I am bloody coward_ , he  thought and smiled sadly when Rhaegal gave a mighty roar, spreading his wings wide.  They glittered like emeralds flecked with gold. The beautiful sight lifted his spirit.

“They are mighty beasts. I give you that,” a familiar voice caused him to turn around. It was Lord Tyrion, his faded red cloak fluttering around his shoulders like the colorful plumage of a bird. “When I was a boy I dreamed of having one of those. I even asked my Uncle Gerion to get me one for my nameday.”

Jon chuckled drily, but felt not into the mood for jesting. He still managed a smile. “And did you get one?”

“No,” Tyrion replied and came to stand beside him, barely reaching to the railing. “Sadly not, but my Uncle promised to bring me an egg. He heard that you can get those in Asshai, the place he travelled to. Uncle Gerion was always the black sheep of our family. He believed in things my father called foolish. Well, he never came back from his last expedition and thus I never got one of these dragon eggs.”

“Dany won’t allow you close to the dragons,” Jon replied in confusion. He didn’t understand why Tyrion was telling him all this.

“I never expected that,” Tyrion explained, his small body shaking his body. “I was just trying to lift the mood. You look pretty lost.”

“I am not lost. I just needed fresh air and was thinking about the future.”

Tyrion nodded his head. “Ah, the future. The Iron Throne. The crown of the Seven Kingdoms. A goal so many men have strived for. Please, forgive me for prying…But how do you intend do deal with the pretender?”

“Pretender,” Jon  repeated. “Neither I nor Dany can prove that he is a pretender. There is still a chance that he is my half-brother. And while I hold no love for him, it seems to me that he is being used by this Magister Illyrio. The fact is, Aegon Targaryen lost his mother and sister, because I was born.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “You know, I was wrong. You haven’t changed all too much, Jon Snow. You are still prone to blaming yourself for the mistake of others. Ned Stark’s tarnished honor was just exchanged with Elia Martell’s gruesome death, both neither things you had control over.”

Jon could only scoff. “What about making my weakness my shield?”

“Back then you were still a bastard with nothing to inherit. Now you are Aemon Targaryen. There is no reason to hide yourself behind the shield of bastardy.”

“I suppose that is true,” Jon granted him. “But I do not want to be a kinslayer. To be an oathbreaker is enough for me.”

Tyrion sighed deeply and cast his gaze back to the dragons. “You know, Jon. Even as an oathbreaker you are a much better person than me. Hell, even my brother Jaime is a better person than me.”

“What are you trying to say?” Jon asked with amusement. “Are you now trying to appeal to my sense of honor after you failed to do the same with Dany? I won’t go against her in this matter. Your brother is our enemy. He tried to kill Robb and he tried to kill my Lord Eddard. I also doubt he is going to support us. When we meet, it will be as enemies.”

If Tyrion was upset by his remark it didn’t show on his face by his words. He simply stared back at Jon, his small stubby hand brushing over the wooden railing.

He was obviously pondering his next step, like a swordsman who was trying to find the weakness of his opponent.

“Jaime saved thousands,” Tyrion said, his two-colored eyes fixed on his. “He did what was necessary. He is deserving of mercy, the mercy you are intending to grant to this pretender who tried to steal your dragons. I am not saying that you should hug Jaime and pardon him of all his previous crimes, but there is still the Night’s Watch.”

Jon frowned, his knuckles turning white as she grabbed the wooden railing.

What Lord Tyrion said was true and it wasn’t like he particularly cared about the Mad King, but Dany’s feelings were just as important in this matter.

“I never said I intend to let Aegon get away with his actions…there are other punishments,” Jon defended himself. “But what Aegon did is harmless compared your brother’s crimes. I also want to win Robb to our cause. I know these men, Tyrion. The Northmen will ask for your brother’s head. Hell, even convincing them to support Dany will be difficult. I am not even sure if Lady Lyanna’s presence would help. You love your brother, I understand that, but he made his choices. If you want to be Lord of the Westerlands then you should try to win Dany’s trust. She is already mistrustful enough of you.”

Tyrion lowered his gaze to his dirty boots. “I can see that. Princess Daenerys does not hold much love for the Lannisters, does she?”

“Neither do I,” Jon gave him the cold truth. “You are an exception, though. I called you a friend at the Wall and I mean it, but if your brother takes up a sword against me I shall kill him. That is my last word. Do not tempt fate.”

“I am a hostage,” Tyrion said. “I understand that. And I know the way of war. I am Tywin Lannisters son, which is why I tell you again: Kill Aegon and be done with it. As for Jaime, he is much more deserving of mercy than I. I am the Lannister you should hate, not Jaime.”

“Now you are overdoing it, Tyrion. How can you be possible worse than your brother? Did you fuck your own sister?”

Surprisingly, Tyrion chuckled and pulled a flask of wine from beneath his cloak, gulping down the red liquid with much gusto.

When he was done, he brushed the wine stains from his mouth and smiled at Jon.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I did,” Tyrion said in a strained voice.

Jon frowned and made a poor attempt of a jest. “Does it involve fucking your sister?”

“Oh, no. Cersei would have never fucked me. I might have…You have seen her bosom, have you not? Well, let’s back to the topic at hand,” he added sarcastically and took another gulp from his flask of wine. “I have need of this to talk about this topic. Those are not happy memories and I have to ask of you never to talk about them to anyone.”

Jon nodded his head in understanding. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“It all started with a girl, a crofter’s daughter. Her name was Tysha and she was as pretty as a summer breeze,” Tyrion explained and averted his gaze. “Jaime and I saved her from overly eager lads who wanted to do harm to her. Well, I fell in love with her and wed her, without realizing the truth about her. You see…when it comes to woman, I have always been blind,” he trailed off and took another gulp from his flask of wine.

Then, he continued. “She was a whore.”

“A whore,” Jon repeated. “I see.”

“It gets much worse,” Tyrion said, tears shining in his eyes. “My Lord Father eventually found out about my marriage. And then Jaime revealed that she was a whore. I have never been angrier in my life…which led me to do what I did. I am not proud of it, but I am a Lannister: pride and cruel, when someone plays games with us. I could blame  what happened on my Lord Father, but I participated freely. I have no excuse for my guilt. Tysha was a whore, but what I did to her was wrong.”

Jon exhaled deeply and touched his shoulder.

“What did you do?”

“I raped her. As did my father’s entire household guard. They gave her each a silver coin and I gave her a golden one. I never saw her again. As the years passed, I buried my guilt deep inside my heart. Sometimes, it feels as if it never happened and at other days I dream of her, fearing her screams will never leave me. Jaime fucked my sister. I do not even deny this truth, but then your ancestors did the same. I see no crime in their love, no matter how poisonous it was. Cersei used Jaime for her own pleasure, but Jaime loved her for it. Now you know why I say that Jaime is a better person than me. Jaime would have never raped a woman, for seeing the Mad King’s cruelty towards his Queen was part of the reason that compelled him to kill the madman. People call him Kingslayer, but it was the right thing to do. I admit…my brother is a vain fool, but I was always more of a Lannister than him. He always lacked my father’s cruelty.”

Jon didn’t know what to say.

He had never thought that Tyrion could commit such a horrid act of violence. Whore or not, nobody deserved such a fate.

“Do not tell Dany about this,” Jon told him and softened his voice. He felt disgusted by the tale, but he hadn’t been there nor had he known this Tysha. Perhaps, if he had known her he would hate Tyrion, but he couldn’t. Tyrion had been decent to him and it was clear that he regretted his actions. _Like your mother_ , his he realized. _You are forgiving towards this rapist but not your own mother. Hypocrite_. “Her first marriage was not a kind one.”

Tyrion nodded his head and brushed his tears away. “I heard of it and perhaps I overstepped my bounds. I shan’t ask her again, but there is something I could do to help you. I have spent my time sketching out a saddle for your dragons.”

“A saddle?” Jon asked, feeling stupid that he had never thought of this idea himself. “How do you know how to make a saddle for dragons?”

“In my youth I have devoured every book about dragons I could find,” Tyrion replied. “I have never seen a real saddle used for dragon riding, but I have seen plenty of depictions of it. I was mixing it with my knowledge about saddles for horses and came up with something that could be of use to you. The way you are riding the dragons doesn’t look very safe to me.”

Jon remained hesitant, but a saddle would be a huge improvement. And it wasn’t like it was anything new. Jon had read enough of the Targaryens to know that they had used such saddles.

“A saddle is a good idea,” Jon replied at last. “Dany will like that idea. Perhaps, it will help to improve her opinion of you. But please, stop bringing up your brother. It would only make it worse.”

 “I shall head your advice,” Tyrion said and lowered his head in reverence. “May I give another piece of advice to you?”

Jon gave silent nod.

“Make peace with your mother before you go North. You will already have enough quarrels waiting for you there. If you want to pull this off convincingly there can be no doubt about the story Lady Lyanna has kept hidden all these years. The Northmen have believed for eighteen years that Lyanna Stark was raped. It will not be easy to change their mind about that face, but if they sense your enmity.”

Jon knew it was true. Dany had told him the same thing, but that was easier said that done.

“What is Lady Lyanna to you? Why do you care?”

“Your mother treated me better than most of my family,” Tyrion countered. “And she too is a better person than me.”

Jon’s heart grew cold like ice, his resentment making it hard for him to think clearly.

“My mother left me…I know she had her reasons, but a true mother wouldn’t have left,” he replied full of bitterness. “I cannot forgive that.”

Tyrion gave him a pitiful smile. “Who says anything about forgiveness? Talking is not forgiveness. It is just talking.”

Then, he was gone, leaving Jon to his own frustrations. Jon flexed his burned hand and cast his eyes to the sky. Rhaegal roared and dove into the green waves, before emerging with a large colorful fish.

_Fuck this_ , Jon thought and returned to Dany’s chamber. He found her in company of Irri and Jhiqui, who were giggling and whispering to each other in the Dothraki tongue. Jon had tried to learn it, but had failed miserably. He always got the pronunciation wrong, which never failed to amuse Jhiqui and Irri.

Noticing his presence, Dany dismissed her handmaids with a smile.

She was garbed in a white tunic, her head and shoulders covered by cloak made of pale wool and a hood made from the head of a white lion. _Harraker_ , he had heard Irri call it.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him and showed him the bowl with dried dates. “Jhiqui and Irri left enough for you and I have lost my taste for them. Ser Jorah didn’t want them either.”

“Ser Jorah was here?” Jon asked, but shouldn’t be surprised. Dany had allowed him to return into her service, though he kept to the Unsullied.

“Where is Ser Barristan?” he asked, sweeping his gaze over the chamber. Usually, he was standing guard at this time of the day.

Dany chuckled. “Seasick. I told him to rest. It is not like anyone can attack me on this ship.”

Jon nodded his head and sad down cross-legged on the carpet.  “I suppose so.”

He picked a date from the bowl and sucked the honey from its surface, before swallowing the fruit whole.

The taste was overly sweet, but Jon hadn’t eaten half the day and had emptied his last fast into the ocean. His stomach had finally settled enough to eat again. Now he knew how it felt to carry a child, though Dany’s sickness had improved considerably since their departure.

“You look pale,” Dany remarked and leaned closer to touch is brow. “Have you been vomiting again?”

Jon brushed her hand away in a gentle manner.

“I am well,” he assured her. “And I had company. Lord Tyrion told me about his idea for a dragon saddle.”

“A dragon saddle?” Dany asked as she leaned back, revealing her stomach. It was hard to say how far along she was, but one could finally see a swelling beneath her tunic. “Viserys never spoke about those.”

“But our ancestors had them,” Jon explained. “During the Dance and before. It is mentioned in the chronicles. I would also be much safer. Victarion Greyjoy’s horn did something to our dragons. They might throw us off, but with a saddle that would be much harder.”

“But why would Lord Tyrion know how to make such a saddle? What does he know about dragons anyway?”

Jon smiled and leaned closer to touch her cheek. “He claims that he wanted a dragon ever since he was a little boy.”

Dany frowned, her brows rising to the top of her head. “Is that to supposed to convince me of his trustworthiness? He is a Lannister.”

“He is,” Jon confirmed. “But he is also quite clever. He has studied more books than most Maesters and he wants to win your trust. I also see no reason why he should harm you.”

“Quaithe warned me about him,” Dany insisted and covered his hands with hers. “I cannot bring myself to trust him.”

Jon didn’t like the sound of that and pulled her hand towards her swollen belly. “You also believed the witch and she turned out to be wrong. I do not think you should build your judgments on prophecies.”

Dany continued to frown, but didn’t pull away.

“I suppose you are right, but I can’t help it,” she admitted, a smile playing on her lips. “Let’s talk about something different? How about names?

“Name for whom?” he asked, feigning confusion.

Dany laughed and ruffled his hair.

“You know for whom. I am growing bored of this sea travel and had a lot of time thinking about it. I also think it might help to occupy your mind with something else,” she explained. “I have already got a name. Viserys.”

Jon blinked, believing he had misheard that name.

“Viserys? After your bloody brother?”

Dany giggled. Jon had the feeling she was trying to mock him.

“You should see your face. But yes, I am considering name, but for different reasons than you might expect. Viserys was not always cruel and without him I would have died. And after Viserions’ loss I have been thinking of him more often. I like to think that this child would be a better Viserys.”

Jon understood her reasoning, but couldn’t help but to dislike the name.

“What about Daeron?”

“A good name. Why Daeron?”

“The Young Dragon,” Jon replied and blushed. “I admired him when I was a boy.”

“The one that conquered Dorne,” Dany hummed. “I doubt the Dornish would like that. By that measure, we ought to name him Daemon. I always had a soft spot for rebels.”

“Lady Stark would have a fit if she heard you,” Jon jested. “Well, maybe Daeron and Daemon are not all too fitting.”

“What about Aemon?” Dany asked. “Aemon the Dragonknight was a good man and the first Aemon would have been a King had he not died so young.”

“I like the name Aemon,” Jon answered. “But I am not so self-important that I would name my child after myself.”

Dany looked disappointed and pondered the problem for a brief moment.

Suddenly, she started to smile at him, her violet eyes alight with amusement.

“What about Gaemon? Sounds similar, but it is not the same name.”

Jon frowned. “Who is Gaemon?”

“Gaemon the Glorious. He was a dragonlord,” Dany informed him with a satisfied smile, obviously pleased that she knew something he didn’t know. “He lived before Aegon Targaryen. That would explain your lack of knowledge about him.”

“Gaemon,” Jon repeated and smiled lovingly. “I like it, but no nicknames. Just Gaemon. Still, you should also think of names for a girl. Or are you so eager to have a boy?”

“A boy would be better,” she replied and brushed her hand over her swollen belly. “At least, then these high lords cannot claim that a woman is trying overstep her bounds. I could point at our son and say, ‘There, you have a male heir to follow after me to soothe your wounded pride’.  That we have dragons should also help.”

“I could still be a girl,” Jon reminded her. “I like Rhaenys…it would be fitting.”

“Aegon would loathe you for this,” Dany countered. “But then he already hates you anyway. Well, I would prefer Rhaella or Alysanne. The first one was my mother’s name and the other one was a good Queen. And I like the stories you told me about her.”

“Rhaella,” Jon repeated and smiled. “I like it.”

“And for another girl…Leana,” Dany added hesitatingly, all previous amusement washed away. “What do you think?”

Jon felt like slapped. He hadn’t expected that answer.

“For what reason?” Jon asked speechlessly.

“Because it is a decent thing to do,” Dany replied and touched his cheek. “What I am really trying to say is…go and talk to her. Nobody expects you to forgive and forget, but our child deserves a grandmother.”

It was a reasonable demand and he understood Dany’s longing for a ‘bigger family’, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“Very well. I shall speak to her.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To sum it up: Tyrion was trying to manipulate Jon for personal reasons. Dany was trying to manipulate Jon to help him deal with is issues.
> 
> For those who have not read the books: Tysha was twelve years old when she got gang-raped by twelves guardsmen and then by Tyrion himself. It was all a lie. She was no whore at all. Tywin told Jaime to tell Tyrion that he staged the saving of Tysha and that she was a maiden whore he bought for his brother to make him a man. Jaime did that. In the books Tyrion loses his shit after hearing it from Jaime's mouth and hates him for it. The Show omitted this for whatever reason to white-wash Show Tyrion and Show Tywin. I get it, he is played by Charles Dance, but let's be honest the real Tywin would have never sat with Arya and had nice chit chat with her. Tywin Lannister is a prideful cunt who deserved his death. A true monster. I do not even think that he was an ounce better than Aerys. I honestly, do not get what Joanna saw in this guy. Like, I prefer to think that Joanna did her duty and actually fucked Aerys behind Tywin's back. I would rather have Cersei and Jaime be Aerys bastards than Tyrion. It would be ironic if Tyrion is the only true son of Tywin Lannister and the only thing a man like him deserves. Tywin is really one of the two characters I despise. Ramsay is the second and I guess Euron will the third one after the next book. Who knows.
> 
> I have actually read some fics where Tyrion finds Tysha alive and she forgives him...shudders. Can you forgive something like that even if it was kinda manipulation by Tywin? I do not think I could.
> 
> I am also sceptical that Tysha would have survived that shit in real live. Like there was this girl in India who got gang-raped by six guys and she didn't make it...Well, what do I know. I am writing fanfiction of a fantasy story.


	72. Reek

**Reek**

The cockroach had tried to escape, but he had been faster. Rat tasted better, but it was better than nothing. He hadn’t eaten in three whole days and even someone as filthy and low like Reek felt a need to fill his belly.

He chewed slowly, the sticky substance in his mouth soothing, but sour to taste. Then, he swallowed, wishing for more than stale water to wet his dry throat.

Suddenly, he heard it. Distant voices reaching his ears.

At once, he grew very still, his body frozen in time. He was glad that he had swallowed his meal whole as he heard the sound of footfalls and the clinking sound of keys.

A shudder of fear rushed through his broken body, rendering helpless like a babe.

Sitting alone in the darkness, he often thought of Lady Hornwood. After the wedding, Lord Ramsay had locked her away in a tower and had slowly starved her to death. In the end, she had even tried to eat her own fingers.

The sounds grew louder as he cowered in the darkness of his cell. It had become almost a friend to him during his long imprisonment, a cloak to cover him from the bright sunlight that felt as if it was trying to blind him.

Again, he shrieked, the pain almost unbearable as the sunlight met his face. He tried to shield his eyes, his head pounding painfully.

“That’s not him,” the fat boy asked. He had a weak chin and red face. “That has to be the wrong cell.”

“The cell on the left,” the other boy remarked. He had a thin, foxlike face. “This is the last cell…Lord Ramsay said so.”

“Aye,” the fat boy said dumbly and grimaced when he looked at Reek. “What is he saying?” He wrinkled his nose. “And he stinks.”

“I think he dislikes the light,” the thin boy remarked. It seems he was the smarter of the two.

“Hmm,” the fat boy says. “Seems so.”

The thin boy laughed and moved closer, the boy’s boots making a crunching sound when he stepped on the left-over bones of the rats he had eaten. “Are you Theon? Do you recall your name?”

 _My name_ , he thought a terrible fear clutching his heart. He knew his name. It was Reek, but he also had another, a name he had forgotten. He shuddered anew. _If I say it wrong, he will take another finger._

He tried not to think about it, his head pounding  with a constant beat.

“Please,” he begged, spittle running down his mouth. “Please leave me alone…”

“Reek,” the fat boy said. “Your name is Reek. Do you remember now?”

 _Reek_ , he thought, fresh tears pouring down his hollow cheeks like rain drops. _I am Reek._

“I am Reek…I am Reek,” he confirmed and said, his mouth full of pain as he spoke. “It rhymes with leak.”

Now he recognized the boys as well. They were clad in matching lambswool doublets, silver-grey with dark blue trim. Both were squires, both were eight and both were called Walder Frey. Big Walder and Little Walder. They had come here before, always mocking him. They are Lord Bolton’s squires, he also recalled. He is now wed to a woman called Fair Walda. He had heard the boys jest about it.

“You are to come with us,” the fat boy declared proudly. “His lordship wishes to present you to his father.”

Fear cut into his heart like a sharp knife. He knew that they were only children, but  Lord Ramsay was not. Reek  could have easily taken keys from the boys, but he would never be able to escape Lord Ramsay’s hounds.

 _He would take another finger from me_ , he knew and recalled how Ramsay had laid a trap for him before. Kyra, one of the hostages from Winterfell had told him that she had stolen the keys and that she knew a postern gate that was never guarded.

 _Take me to Winterfell,_ she had asked of him _._ _Come with me, please._

And so he had. The dungeon door had been open and the postern gate had been unguarded, but it had been another one of Lord Ramsay’s games. _Fool. Fool. Stupid Reek._

Lord Ramsay had chased them through the woods until the sun had risen and Reek had been too exhausted to walk further. He had continued though, promising the poor girl he would come back for her. It had been another lie, but it had been no use anyway.

 Lord Ramsay found them. One of his dogs had knocked him to the ground and a second dog had buried his teeth in Kyra’s leg, sending her rolling down the hillside. The rest had surrounded him, snarling  and snapping at him as until Ramsay had joined them.

The rest was a blur of terror and blood. At times, he still heard Kyra’s scream as the hounds had torn her apart.

“Should we wash him?” Small Walder asked and wrinkled his nose, calling Reek back to the present.

“His Lordship likes him stinky,” Big Walder added. “That’s why he called him Reek.”

When Small Walder pulled him up Big Walder waved the torch at him to lead him out of the cells.

Reek obeyed without hesitation. There was no use in fighting back. Lord Ramsay would punish him again.

Out in the yard, Reek noticed several riders, all garbed in the pink robes of House Bolton, the moon full and fat, laughing down at him, mocking him.

Reek inhaled deeply. The Fresh air felt wonderful. To walk and stand upright felt even better. It made him remember that he was still a man. A broken man, but still a man.

 _Ree_ k, he admonished his mind. _You are Reek._

He shuddered as a current of wind washed over him and when he raised his hand to rub his shoulders, he noticed that his flesh was as pale as milk. Yet, that was not the only thing that disturbed him. His fingers were skin and boneless, the fingers of an old man.

Warmth returned to him as he entered the dim and smoky hall. Rows of torches blurred at the corner of his eye and the smell of ale and roasted meat filled his nose.

His stomach rumbled at the scents and his mouth began to water at once.

Walder pushed him forward and Reek stumbled towards the table, where he found a handful of men assembled, enjoying their supper.

The best places, were occupied by Lord Roose Bolton and another Lord that was more than familiar to him. It was a gaunt and crooked men, bent by age. He had a scrawny neck, squinty grey eyes and was just a few white hairs away from complete baldness.

 _Karstark_ , Reek recalled from another life. _Arnolf Karstark._

Lord Ramsay was also there, seated a little below with horde of friends. The Bastard Boys.  There was Ben Bones, the old man who kept Ramsay’s beloved hunting dogs well-fed. Damon, called Damon Dance-for-Me, fair haired and boyish. Grunt, who had lost his tongue for speaking carelessly in Lord Bolton’s presence. At last came Sour Aly, Skinner, Yellow Dick and so on.

Most wrinkled their noses as he passed and others laughed.

When Lord Bolton’s grey eyes fell upon Reek, he felt his knees buckle.

“My Lord,” he croaked. “You have returned.”

“He is hardly recognizable,” Lord Bolton said in his usual whispery voice and looked down at Ramsay, who was smiling proudly.  “What did you do with him?”

He was clad in black and pink-black boots, a black belt and scabbard, a black leather jerking over a pink velvet doublet slashed with dark red satin. In his right ear gleamed a garnet cut in the shape of a drop of blood. Even so, he was an ugly man, big-boned and slope-shouldered, with a fleshiness to him that suggested that he would turn fat later in life. His skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his mouth small, his hair long and dark and dry. His lips were wide and meaty, but the thing men noticed at first were his eyes, his strange pale eyes.

“Do you disapprove, Lord Father? Isn’t he a fine gift for Robb Stark?”

Lord Bolton remained cold as frozen ice.

“Lord Stark wants your head.”

“So what?” Ramsay asked and put his dirty boots atop the table in front of him. “Isn’t that why you brought Lord Karstark here? To plot treachery? Do not deny it. I know your mind, Lord Father.”

“I do not deny it,” Lord Bolton replied and looked straight at Reek. “Now you will have to cut out his tongue. I won’t have him tell on us.”

“He won’t disobey,” Ramsay promised. “Reek is good. Isn’t, that so?”

“It is true…,” he stuttered. “Reek is good. Good.”

Lord Bolton remained indifferent as ever.

“You will cut out his tongue. I shan’t take a risk when I am dragging him into the Fat Merman’s halls.”

Ramsay looked like a child that was denied a piece of cake.

“So bloodthirsty, Lord Father?” he asked and pulled the knife out of the roasted chicken. “What brought that on?”

“Your foolish actions,” Lord Bolton remarked icily. “You shouldn’t have acted without my permission, but then I shouldn’t have expected anything less. You are a bloody dog without measure. Disappoint me again and I shall have you flayed. Lady Walda is expecting.”

Reek didn’t know how it had happened, but for the first time since he had known Lord Ramsay, a hint of fear showed in his ghostly eyes.

“I shall not disappoint you, Lord Father. Never again.”

“Good,” Lord Bolton said and waved his hand at one of his retainers. It was the goaler. “Bring the girl. Another gift for the Fat Merman.”

Moments later, he returned, dragging a struggling woman into the hall. She was garbed in naught but dirty robes, her short hair in complete disarray and her eyes burning with rage as she tried to struggle against the grip of the two guardsmen.

“Do you recall her?” Ramsay asked, his sour breath brushing against Reek’s neck. “I thought she would be prettier. I thought her a boy, but now I know that she has a cunt like every other common woman.”

Reek shuddered at the sight of the girl.

He knew her face. His mother’s face. And her nose. His father’s nose.

It was a face he had never thought to see again.

“Asha,” he croaked. “Asha.”

**…**


	73. Old Enemies

**Robb**

Castle Black was not as impressive as Robb had imagined. He had expected a mighty castle, but what he saw was nothing but a handful of timber keeps and stone towers.

His opinion had only changed when he had laid eyes on the Wall. Robb had stared at it in breathless silence for a long time, before the Greatjon’s booming voice had snapped him back to the present.

Even now, as they were riding over the ice-crusted courtyard, he couldn’t help but to admire the famous Wall. The ancient building stretched for three hundred miles and was about seven hundred feet tall.

There was a strange beauty to it. Its icy surface shone blue and crystalline in the soft sunlight piercing through the heavy grey clouds. It reminded Robb of one of Roslin’s hairnets.

Yet, his admiration had been cut short when the first Wildlings came pouring out from their hiding places. A hundred of them had met them along the way, all buff man with scruffy beards of brown, red and grey hair. Most of these men were his father’s age, but there were also a handful younger men.

The tension  was palpable between all parties. Robb had brought ten-thousand men, led by the Greatjon Umber, Lord Glover, Lady Alysanne Mormont, Lord Harrion Karstark and another few hundred-men, led by Lady Jorelle Mormont, had joined them along the way. The Mountain Clans had also joined him not long ago, in total three-thousand men.

These were hard men, roughly-dressed and scarred from their constant squabbles about lands and women, but surprisingly pleasant to be around. Like the Greatjon, they were quite hostile towards the Wildlings and eager to fight, which was why Robb had left the Greatjon and the Mountain Clans behind to command their men in his absence as he didn’t want to risk his father’s life.

The only Wildling he had known personally was Osha, a woman that had first tried to kill his little brother and had afterwards become his friend. Robb also had no doubt that these Wildlings had forced his Lord Father to write the letter that had been sent to Last Hearth. Even so, the stories he had heard from Old Nan had always painted the Wildlings as blood-thirsty men without fear and reason.

 _Why did they stay at the Wall_ , Robb wondered not for the first time, as a man emerged from the crowd of bearded warriors. _Are they afraid?_

This man was a far cry from the warriors surrounding him. He was of slender build and of  a middling height, but broader in chest and shoulders. His long brown hair was littered grey streaks, laughter lines crinkling the corners of his lips. His garb was simple too. The man was wearing wool and leather, a cloak of black wool and red silk wound over his shoulder.

By the way, the other Wildlings treated him, Robb deduced that this was their leader.

_Mance Ryder. The Oathbreaker. The-King-Beyond-the-Wall._

That his father was nowhere to be seen scared Robb only more.

It seemed Greywind had sensed his feelings, for he  immediately bared his teeth at the approaching man. The warriors beside him lifted their spears in defense, their narrowed eyes watching Robb with distrust.

“Greywind, come here,” Robb commanded loudly and to his satisfaction Greywind immediately prowled back to his side, though his gaze remained fixed on the warriors. “Good work, my boy.”

Robb lifted his head to look into the man’s mud-brown eyes. He tried to appear strong and composed, but still felt like young boy.

_I defeated the Lannisters. I can do this._

“I hope my wolf didn’t frighten you, your Grace,” Robb replied, trying his best to harden his voice.

A low rumble of laughter washed over the crowd of warriors.

Suddenly, every one turned their heads when a massive hairy beast appeared beside one of the towers. Robb’s jaw slackened at the sight of this beast, this giant.

 _Impossible_ , he thought, his heart skipping a beat.  _Such creatures shouldn’t exist._

“A fearsome beast,” Lady Alysanne Mormont added, her teeth clenched. She was a bulky woman and wore her hair in a dark braid snaking its way down he shoulders.

Lord Harrion Karstark was beside her, his face as pale as ash.

“Gods be good,” Robb heard the young man mutter, the laughter of the Wildlings a distant echo to his ears. “Gods be good.”

It was Greywind’s howl that made him aware of his shameful behavior.

_You are the Lord of the North. Not a boy. You cannot show weakness in front of these men._

“Impressive,” Robb told Mance Ryder after he had climbed from his horse. Olyvar took the reins of his horse, his greenish eyes still fixed on the giant that was grumbling in a foreign tongue. _Is this the Old Tongue_ , Robb wondered as patted his wolf’s head. “I assume you have more of these giants, your Grace?”

Mance Ryder’s lips quirked upwards and waved his hand at a handful of men…no women.

“Bring the bread and ale. We Wildlings are also aware of the guest right, Lord Stark.”

Robb felt ashamed that he hadn’t recognized them as women, thought there was a reason for it: some were taller than the average Northman and wore breeches made of leather and fur. Most also lacked delicate features, their faces sharp and weather-worn and a tangle of knots and braids. Every one of them also carried daggers, spears and axes strapped to their hips. _Spear wives_ , they called themselves. Osha had told him that a long time ago.

Some of Lady Alysanne Mormont’s men started to snicker when the Wildling woman drew closer, but the Lady silenced them with a sharp look.

“Bread and ale,” one of the women growled at him. Robb hadn’t noticed her among these strongly-build flowers, but this one was very beautiful. Her face was long and sharp, but her hair was bright like spring sunshine. Her eyes were sharp too, like a polished blade. Even her clothing seemed more refined. Her cloak was made of pale fur that reminded Robb of Ghost.

“Did you hear?” She asked again and flashed him an annoyed look. “Are you deaf, Lord Kneeler?”

Robb should feel insulted, but in truth he felt more ashamed that he had been eying this beauty with lust. He was after all a married man and Roslin was carrying his son. Besides, this Wildling woman looked as if she wanted to cut off his balls and eat them.

“Ah, thank you, my Lady,” he replied and picked the dark bread from the bowl. He broke it and took a bite, before pouring it down with a gulp of ale from a wooden cup that was being handed around and constantly being refilled by one of the other spear wives.

The ale nearly made him gag. Soon, another rumble of laughter washed over the crowd of Wildlings when Lord Harrion Karstark started clutching his throat and spat the liquid on his boots.

“What the fuck is that brew?” he cursed. “Poison?”

“A special brew from my people,” informed them a man with a scraggy grey beard and a loop-sided smile. He loomed like a giant over Mance Ryder. “I hope you liked it, Lord Kneeler.”

Robb tried to remain polite.

“And who are you?”

“Tormund Giantsbane,” the man snickered and dipped his head in a mocking gesture. “If it pleases you ‘M’lord’ or was it ‘your Grace’? I always get that wrong, Mance.”

“As you can see…We of the Free Folk have no need for such titles, Lord Stark,” Mance Ryder explained as he drew closer. “To most I am simply Mance.”

Robb smiled, Greywind’s head brushing against his shoulder.

“Your wolf is also impressive,” Mance added in amusement, but seemed not the least bit afraid.

_And why would he? He has fucking giants in his employ?_

The fact, that he was openly joking with Robb confused him only more.

 _He is trying to lull me into false security_ , Robb thought. _That is the only possibility explanation._

He hardened his heart and lowered his voice.

“Where is my father? I came here to see him.”

Mance Ryder didn’t seem frightened of Robb either. He continued as before, a smile playing at his lips.

“Your father is well. Follow me to the Shieldhall and you will see that I mean no harm to you or your men. We have a feast prepared for you and your men.”

Robb swallowed hard and regretted his decision of leaving his army behind.

 _Foolish boy_ , he thought. Greywind seemed to sense his fear and bared his teeth at Mance once more. _Foolish boy._

“Greywind,” he told the wolf and patted his head. “Enough.”

Then, he followed after Mance Ryder, Greywind prowling beside him.

When Robb entered the Shieldhall, he had expected to find something resembling the Great Hall of Winterfell, but the contrary was the case. The Shieldwall turned out to be a dusty hall infested with rats and worm-eaten rafters.

Robb exchanged quiet looks with his men, but the Wildlings seemed unconcerned by the birds housing atop them or the wind rattling through the rafters. No, Mance Ryder’s chieftains  sat down on the tables, laughing and hollering as if they were in a common tavern. The spear wives were not much different. Some sat in groups around the tables, their leader, some of them women, seated in their midst. Some women, presumedly not spear wives, were also filling ale in raised cups, horns and tankards.

Lord Harrion paled at the sight of the ale, which seemed to amuse Mance Ryder.

“Don’t fret, Lord Stark,” Mance Ryder said. “I am an oathbreaker, but most of the time I keep my word. We kept your father well-fed, at least compared to his brothers. Some of them are residing in the dungeons and those that are still not willing to see reason are residing in the Ice Cells.”

Robb didn’t want to know what an Ice Cell was and forced a smile over his lips.

“I want to see my father if it pleases you, Mance. It is what we arranged. _Now_.”

Mance laughed and lifted his horn, drinking greedily, before waving his hand at one of his man. The other Wildlings had referred to him as Styr.

Mance muttered a command at him in the coarse language of the Wildlings. The man gave a polite nod and went off to fetch his father.

Robb used his time to take in the food that was being served and realized that Mance had put much effort in providing them with a proper supper. A steaming bowl of rabbit stew stood before him and the bread was fresh and soft to taste. The ale was terrible as before, but they also offered wine from the Lord Commander’s stash as Tormund Giantsbane had informed him proudly.

“Ah, Lord Stark,” Mance called out to Robb and pointed at the arched door. “See, your father is alive.”

Robb grimaced, but looked relieved when he spotted his father among Styr’s warriors. He looked pale, his hair longer than Robb recalled, but alive.

“Is that enough?” Mance asked.

Robb didn’t like the sound of that.

“I want to speak with him,” he insisted, but Mance shook his head. “There will be time for that after the feast. Don’t fret, your father will also receive some of that rabbit stew,” he added and pointed at his wife, seated a bit lower at the table next to the young woman that had offered salt and bread to Robb. “Dalla would be cross with me if we mistreated our guests.”

Robb didn’t know what to say, but he could read the disapproval on his companion’s face. A man of the Night’s Watch had to forsake all wives and crowns. The pretty lady was another proof of his oathbreaking.

 _Jon did the same_ , Robb reminded himself to make it easier to calm his anger. _And Mance is playing games with me. Yet, I have no other choice._

Thus, Robb played along for the rest of the evening, listening to Mance’s stories and feasting with these men that were supposed to be his enemies.

That these Wildlings turned out to be not much different than other man, made it only harder for him to perceive them as enemies.

No, they were just humans of flesh and blood, with wants and desires, wives and children.

And amongst all these hard men was Mance Ryder, who was revered by them like his Lord Father had been in Winterfell. Nobody called him ‘Lord’ or ‘his Grace’, but one could see that he was their King and how much they loved him.

 _A King without a crown_ , Robb thought later as Val led him up the King’s Tower, which Mance Ryder had chosen as his personal residence. _No crown, but at least a tower._

Val kept her spear close as she walked beside him and only cast her gaze away when she opened the wooden door studded with iron.

The chamber inside was spacious enough, furnished with an oak table, stools, tapestries and a hearth. There were also wooden logs placed against the wall and a staircase leading to the upper chambers, presumedly Mance’s resting place.

“Styr will bring the Lord Kneeler,” Val told him and watched Greywind with curiosity.

“A direwolf,” she said. “I have been wondering this for long time…How did you get a direwolf?”

“We found his dead mother in the woods,” Robb explained and was impressed by her lack of fear. “And raised her pups on goats milk. All my siblings had one. Three of them are most likely dead.”

Val’s gaze softened and she stretched out her hand towards Greywind, who remained surprisingly calm. He even lifted his head and touched his wet nose to her hand, licking her fingers.

“I have only a sister. Her name is Dalla, Mance’s woman,” she answered quickly, before climbing up the stairs. From upstairs, Robb could hear the sound of a crying babe, which only confirmed to him that this was indeed Mance’s resting place.

 _Mance has a son, a Wildling Prince_ , Robb thought as he sat down on the stool, Greywind lying down beside his feet. _Wonderful._

Not long after, Styr returned in company of his father.

The door had been barely closed, before his father had pulled him into a fierce embrace.

“You look well,” his father replied, his voice laced with laughter after he had allowed Robb to leave his embrace. “You look well…you have a beard.”

“I am well,” Robb assured him, unsure how to speak to him. In the past their roles had been changed and then there was also the matter with Jon that needed to be addressed. _Gods, it was too much_. “Mother didn’t like it.”

His father laughed, though there was a hint of sadness showing in his eyes as he sat down across Robb, his gaze immediately darting to Greywind.

“Gods, what a fearsome beast he has grown into.”

Robb smiled and sat down again, the heat of the hearth pleasant on his skin.

Robb allowed a moment of silence to pass between them. There were so many things he wanted to talk about, but there was so little time. He doubted Mance would allow him to sit here all night and tomorrow was the parley.

“Have you heard about Winterfell and King’s Landing?” Robb asked.

Silence reigned, before his father finally spoke.

“I have heard about Winterfell and I know that Stannis is King. I assume Sansa and Arya are alive?”

“Sansa…we couldn’t find her,” Robb admitted and lifted his head. “Arya is well, though. A man named Yoren brought her to Riverrun. Not long after, I sent her and mother to the Vale. Lord Royce promised me to keep them safe. I am also trying to arrange a match between Lady Ysilla Royce and Uncle Edmure and between Lord Harrold Hardyng and Arya. He is Robin Arryn’s heir and through my support Lord Royce hopes to put an end to Petyr Baelish’s misrule.”

“And because he hopes that Robin Arryn will not survive winter,” his father grumbled in obvious displeasure. “Though that shouldn’t surprise me. Yohn always enjoyed political games. Well, I suppose it is the only way to get rid of Petyr Baelish. I shan’t grieve for that treacherous little rat. He is at fault for my predicament. He promised to bring the Gold Cloaks to my side, but betrayed me in my hour of need.”

“I see,” Robb said, everything suddenly much clearer. “That makes sense.”

“Arya is not going to like this match,” his father added and ruffled his hands through his untidy hair. “Are you sure this is a wise choice?”

“Wise choice or not,” Robb replied. “If I had Sansa I would have offered her hand in marriage. I also couldn’t send mother with empty hands.”

“So much is true,” his father agreed and sighed deeply. “And I do not fault you for your choices. You are doing the best you can considering your youth. I wish I never left Winterfell. I should have told Robert to make Stannis his Hand.”

“You should have,” Robb agreed, but in a soft and reassuring tone. “But what is done cannot be undone, father. We must look to the future.”

“Aye,” his father said and lifted his head once more. “Though this future looks rather grim.”

Robb was not surprised. “The Wildlings.”

“Not the Wildlings,” his father countered quickly and leaned over the table to touch Robb’s arm. “Something else entirely…the Others.”

Robb froze and searched his father’s face once more.

“The Others?” Robb asked in disbelief. “Are you jesting?”

“No,” his father, formerly Lord of Winterfell, replied in a deadly serious tone that was beginning to scare Robb. “I know this sounds mad, but several of my brothers encountered them beyond the Wall. Mance Ryder and his chieftans claim the same. Something sinister is stirring beyond the Wall and the witnesses all describe the same appearances: graceful men with shroud-like pale hair and piercing blue eyes. They command bears, birds and the dead and everywhere they go cold follows them. I have not seen them with my own eyes, but you know the words of our house: _Winter is Coming_. It is a warning and I think we ought to take it seriously, my son.”

Robb had listened in silence, but even after he had heard his father’s words he didn’t know what to say.

“What does that mean for the upcoming parley?” he asked and squeezed his father’s hand.

His father looked torn, his eyes dark like the sky before a coming storm.

“That Wildlings and Northmen must stand together.”

Robb couldn’t believe his hears.

“My lords will not like that.”

“They must,” his father insisted fiercely and tightened his grip on Robb’s arm. “Or they will die. I know how mad that sounds, my boy, but I ignored the warning signs before. I won’t do it again.”

…


	74. Mother and Son

**Lyanna**

Lyanna hadn’t even realized that she had fallen asleep next to the brazier when she was woken by the sound of footfalls. Rubbing her eyes, it took her a moment to realize that her son was watching her expectantly.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, his gaze darting to the cloak she had been working on, still resting on her lap. “I can go…,” he trailed off suddenly when she met his gaze.

“No!” she called after him, her voice high and strained to her ears. “Please, don’t go!”

Her son stopped and turned around, but didn’t speak before another moment of silence had passed between them. His wolf was also there, poking his head over his shoulder, before prowling towards her, his ruby eyes fixed on Lyanna.

Lyanna was surprised when the beast started to lick her outstretched hand. The sudden touch of his wet nose on her cheek made her involuntarily chuckle.

“Brandon would have been so jealous,” Lyanna couldn’t help to add, as she brushed her hand through Ghost’s soft fur. He felt so warm and when the wolf lay down beside her she felt a surge of affection for that massive beast.  “He always wanted a direwolf like the Lords and Kings in the crypts.”

Jon was still silent, stirring the fires of the brazier back to life, instead of doing what he had come for: to speak with her.

“We found their mother killed by a Stag,” her son said at last and sat down on the woven carpet. It was made from a dull red color and embellished with exotic birds with long necks. “Ghost was the runt of the litter.”

Lyanna nodded her head and sat down cross-legged, her heart filling with renewed hope. It was the first normal thing they had spoken about since their first meeting. His answer also sparked an idea.

“That fits, then,” Lyanna said, recalling the past she had wanted to forget about by becoming a Septa. “You were born a moon too early and would have surely died if Ned and Howland hadn’t brought me to Starfall.”

Her son frowned, his dark eyes glinting with hidden anger.

“So, my father didn’t even leave you with a proper Maester?”

“He  left me with a proper midwife,” Lyanna couldn’t help but to defend Rhaegar. “You have to understand. Rhaegar always mistrusted the Maesters and he was afraid he might betray our whereabouts. Imagine the Dornish found out about his lover residing in Dorne? They might have tried harm us.”

Her son nodded his head and flexed his burned hand. Lyanna wanted to ask him about his wound, but she knew that would be too personal. He came here to ask questions not the other way around.

“I understand why,” her son said and clenched his teeth. “They have every right to hate me. Their Princess would still be alive if I hadn’t been born.”

Lyanna didn’t like the sound of that.

“I told you before…that is utter nonsense,” she replied and leaned forward, searching his face. “You have every right to exist. Your life is not worth less than others and if you truly want to blame someone then blame me. I can take it.”

“I am already blaming you,” he said and met her gaze. “But that isn’t helping to ease my guilt and my anger. I dislike what Aegon did, but he also has reason to be angry with you and my father. He has every reason to hate me, which is why I want to know…Why couldn’t you simply ask Prince Rhaegar to take you home? If you had just gone home everything would have been better.”

Lyanna shuddered, old memories trying to wedge their way back into her mind. Memories she had been able to forget about since she was a Septa.

“And you wouldn’t have existed,” Lyanna repeated angrily. “Why do you think so little of yourself?”

Jon ignored her question, his lips a pale line and his brows furrowed. Rhaegar had carried the same expression whenever he was unable to make sense of something.

Instead he continued where they had left off.

“Please answer my question,” he insisted firmly. “I know that sounds mad, but it feels as if you are still hiding something from me.”

Lyanna felt the urge to deny the truth, but she knew that would be wrong.

Lyanna trembled as she folded her hands in her lap, her mouth suddenly in knots and her throat dry as a desert.

“Aye, I did love your father,” she confirmed and paused for a moment. She exhaled deeply and continued, her stomach fluttering wildly. “But there is more…I was no maid when I wed your father.”

At once, her son’s dark brows rose to the top of his head, his long pale face a sharp contrast to the dark cloak wrapped around his shoulder.

“I…I suppose that happens,” her son said in obvious confusion and started to fumble with the clasp of his cloak. “So, my father took your maidenhead before marriage? Forgive me, I can’t follow.”

Lyanna was not surprised and leaned closer, brushing her hand over his arm. “It was not your father who took my virtue. It was one of the men who abducted me, a clumsy fool at that. He was already half-dead when I cut his throat.”

Her son just stared back at her, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound leaving it.

“You are Rhaegar’s son,” she assured him quickly and squeezed his hand. “Your father saved me and brought me to the Quiet Isle. You were conceived two moons later in Summerhall. You have so much of him…,” she was about to continue, but her son interrupted her.

“I don’t _even_ care about that!” he snapped angrily and pushed her hand away. “Why did you lie _again_?”

Lyanna felt as if she had a lump in her throat and was starting to feel slightly dizzy. Blurred memories danced before her eyes, but she pushed them away. She would take care of them later. Perhaps Lord Tyrion might be inclined to offer her a taste from the wine he filled every day into his golden flask.

“Why?” she asked, trying her best to keep her composure. “Because I preferred my truth over the real truth. You have to understand…I was very different when I was young. I was proud, I was reckless and I was of the opinion that I had no need of my family’s protection. I dressed up as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and paid for it.”

“And my father wanted to marry you despite your predicament?” her son asked in disbelief.

“Aye,” Lyanna confirmed again and started to squirm under her son’s intense gaze. “I liked him before, you know. He was a good-looking man and I was flattered by his attention and the fact that he admired me for my performance during the tilt. Still, I didn’t trust him, especially not after he humiliated me in front of the entire realm. But then he saved me by risking his own life. And most importantly, he never forced me. He asked me whether I wanted to wed him. My father never game me such a choice. He loved me, but the moment I flowered I was nothing more than a tool for power. I only wanted a choice, for better or worse. I suppose I am too proud for my own good.”

“A trait we share,” her son added sadly, his gaze flickering to his burned hand and then back to her. “But why did you not at least tell Uncle Eddard about it?” he asked. “He might have understood…,” he began, but Lyanna cut him off, shaking her head.

“I could trust Ned after he took matters into his own hand and took you away from me. I felt I had no other choice…but to leave. I don’t think I would have survived a marriage with Robert.  Rhaegar was kind to me…he never touched me until I allowed it. Robert…I could have never lain with him let alone born his children. In the end, I would have probably ended up killing him. You have every right to hate me for my choices, but at least that way, Ned cannot lay that death at my doorstep.”

“I have met King Robert once,” her son said his voice changing to a softer tone. “He was a far cry from the warrior he once was and looked nothing like a King. Gods, the Kingslayer looked kinglier than him. Yet, he didn’t seem cruel to me. Foolish, but not cruel.”

“I never said Robert was cruel nor did I hate him at first,” Lyanna replied defensivly. “I only hated what he represented, namely the fact that I could not make a future for myself. My father, Brandon and Ned always thought of me as a little girl that needed to be guarded as if I was some dimwit. “ _Tis is for your best_ ’ my father would say. ‘ _Tis is a great honor_ ’ Ned would say. But what do they know about my feelings? Father married for love and Ned…I understand why he loved Robert. He was a true brother to him after father sent him away to this foreign place. Mayhaps that is my greatest failure…that I couldn’t love Robert.”

“I don’t blame you for loving my father,” her son said gently. “But I blame my father for not knowing better. I suppose he didn’t love the Princess Elia, but I could never imagine betraying my lady in such a vile manner, let alone leave my children. Forgive me, I just can’t bring myself to like my blood father very much.”

Lyanna had listened in silence and felt long-buried resentments stirring up inside her.

“I see,” she said and sighed deeply. “To you I am just a silly child led astray by love, but that is unfair towards your father and towards myself. I knew that your father was wed and had children of his own and I would have stayed with him had the gods decided to bless him with a victory. Aye, I would have been his second wife and to most probably his mistress and I would have done this regardless of Ned’s feelings. I always knew that there would be consequences for my choice. I knew that marrying Rhaegar would mean to choose him over my family. Call me a traitor if you like, but please do not paint me as a silly child. I was reckless and proud when I played knight, but when I was marrying your father I knew what I was doing. I regret the suffering I caused, but I do not regret loving him nor do I regret having you.”

“Aegon would think differently,” her son replied accusingly. “The boy you raised.”

“Aye,” she confirmed. She couldn’t deny that truth. Her son deserved so much. “And a boy that I love as he were my own. Just as I love you. Do you think I have forgotten about you? Every time I looked at Aegon I was reminded of you.”

“And what now?” her son asked in a challenging tone. “What do you think of him now?”

“That he is a reckless boy, but then his actions are just another one of my many failings. I thought I could redeem myself by helping him to his crown and in the end I made everything only worse,” she added and laughed bitterly. “I suppose I am cursed forever.”

“Aegon could become our enemy,” her son reminded her, his voice laced with bitterness. “I wonder which side you would choose?”

“Yours,” she assured him without hesitation. “I am not going to lie. It would pain me to see Aegon die, but the same goes for you or Rhaegar’s sister. Daenerys suffered because of my actions and so did her brother Viserys. She is just as deserving of the crown as you. It is just…I never cared for the crown until Rhaegar’s death. I was dreaming of a life of freedom…a life away from my father’s strict, a life with you and Rhaegar.”

“A pretty dream,” her son snorted. “But my father’s other wife and children would have probably detested me anyway. I doubt it would have been any different than to grow up with Lady Stark’s cold looks and lord Stark’s lies. I suppose I am cursed too, but then I am an oathbreaker like you. You betrayed your betrothal pledge and betrayed my vow to the Night’s Watch. I am still waiting for the gods to punish me, but so far they have been strangely kind to me. Makes me think that all these gods are just an imagination of the human mind to explain our twisted world. I suppose you know more about such matters than me.”

Lyanna chuckled and started to pull on the loose thread around the hem of her dress.

“I have long stopped believing in the gods. I would like to see a weirwood, though. I miss the smell. I hope to see one when I go North,” she rambled on and lifted her gaze. “And then I will tell Ned the truth…No, I will tell the truth to the entire North if need be. I hope it will help to ease their hatred against House Targaryen and help Daenerys to retake the crown that was stolen from her family.”

Her son said nothing for a while and was simply brushing Ghost’s fur, before sharing his thoughts with her.

“It is strange,” he said and laughed in amusement. “I dread going home, though it was the very reason I joined Daenerys’ cause. I regretted breaking my vows and hoped she would pardon me. Now, I am afraid of facing my Uncle. I loved him once, I think I still do to a certain extent, but I don’t think I can forgive his lies. I do not know what I will do when I see him again.”

“Make peace with him,” Lyanna advised him. “Leave the quarreling to us. You shouldn’t allow the past to poison your future. Imagine what your siblings would say if you threatened their father?”

“They are my cousins,” her son corrected her. “But you are right. I still see them as my siblings. And I love them dearly, especially Arya. She wouldn’t like it if I spoke ill of father. She would probably kick my shin and call me stupid  and refuse to speak to me until I apologize to him. She is more stubborn than me.”

Lyanna chuckled. “I would have done the same if someone insulted my father. We had our differences, but when I heard about his death. I was very upset with Rhaegar…Now I wish I gave him kinder words, before he left to ride to his death…,” she stuttered, tears burning in her eyes.

She brushed them away and averted her gaze. Showing weakness was not her way.

“I cannot make peace with him until I have heard his reasons,” her son said at last and balled his burned hand to a fist. “And there is also Lady Stark…I shall tell her what I think of her. To her I was always the wicked bastard who would one day steal Winterfell from Robb. I hate her for that, you know, for thinking I would ever do such a vile thing my own brother.”

Lyanna hadn’t expected to hear him speak with so much vitriol, but then she should have expected so much. He had implied more than once that his relationship with Ned’s wife had been frosty.

“Another one of my failings,” she apologized habitually. “But then she is a lady of the South. When I thought I was dying, I asked Ned to protect you, but I certainly didn’t think he would raise you in front of his Lady. I thought he would send you to Lord Reed or perhaps foster you with a lord of his choice. For all his failings, Ned must have loved you to keep you in Winterfell. I know no Lord who would raise his bastard with his trueborn children. Perhaps he recalled how much it had pained him to go to the Eyrie. I recall it quite vividly…he had been clinging to Brandon’s cloak like a sailor to a sinking ship.”

“I care not to hear about your excuses, mother,” her son replied weakly. “I have heard enough of them for a lifetime,  but you are right about one thing. I don’t want my past to poison my future, which is the very reason I came here to speak with you. I want to make peace with you and…father, a father I know next to nothing about.”

Lyanna was surprised by this admission, but didn’t dare to hope. All her past hopes been crushed too often.

“You have much of him, you know,” Lyanna replied. “You have his tendency for melancholy, the same frown and his eyes. Truly, I don’t know what Ned would have done if you were born with silver hair.”

Jon frowned again and started to open and close his fist in rapid motion. Open and close, open and close. Again and again he repeated this motion and clenched his teeth, as if he was quarreling with his inner demons.

Then, he finally stopped and spoke once more.

“Dany says he believed in this prophecy about the Promised Prince,” her son said. ”Is that true?”

Lyanna was not surprised that Daenerys told him about it, but by his tense expression she deduced that it was not something he approved of.

“Aye, he believed that you are the Promised Prince. I didn’t know what to make of his silly believes, but then I loved your father and when you love someone you love him with all his failures. Perhaps that was wrong.”

“I just don’t like this idea that our life is decided by fate,” her son grumbled. “It takes away our free choice and it bothers me that Dany believes in this nonsense. She even thought this witch made her barren.”

“And now you are expecting a child,” Lyanna summed up. “Isn’t that so?”

Her son gave her a surprised look.

“Did you know it for long?”

“For a while,” Lyanna admitted hesitatingly. He seemed upset. “Or better said I suspected it. I had a child of my own, you know.”

Her sons expression softened instantly.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Its just all so much…Mayhaps we should stop now…I want to know more about my father, but there is only so much I can take. Lord Eddard Stark was my father for nearly half my life and it often still feels that way.”

“That is understandable,” Lyanna replied and leaned over to touch his arm once more. This time he allowed it. “And I have to get used to the idea of being Lyanna Stark again.”

A ghost of a smile showed crossed her son’s lips. It was like the sun bursting through the stormy sky. No, it was as if Rhaegar had returned to her for this brief moment.

“I suppose that is something we have in common, mother.”

…


	75. Harry the Heir

**Arya**

Arya tried her best not to flinch as the ladies pulled on the bindings of her dress. At times, it felt as if they were trying to suffocate her, but whenever she clenched her teeth it was almost bearable. She had seen worse and she would survive this, even though she had to play something she was not: A Lady.

“It is done,” an amused voice said and caused Arya to turn around. It was Lady Ysilla Royce, Lord Yohn Royce’s only daughter. She was a true lady with a heart-shaped faced and shiny brown hair which she always kept in proper braids or hairnets. Her eyes were even prettier, all green like the sea. “Now you can breathe again, Lady Arya.”

Arya exhaled deeply and realized to her utter surprise that it was true. The gown sat tight around her chest, but she was able to breathe again. How was that possible?

“Do you like the dress?” Lady Ysilla asked and touched the grey skirt plaited with pearls. It was made from heavy cloth that the other ladies called brocade. “It belonged to my cousin, but it should fit you quite well. Grey for a She-Wolf from Winterfell. Harry will be enchanted.”

Arya still hoped he would detest her. Then, he might refuse to marry her and she could live out her days in Winterfell. Or maybe Sansa might come back and could marry him instead.

“I am not sure about that,” Arya replied diplomatically and touched her braided hair. The ladies had scrubbed her skin until it had turned red and then they had washed her hair with some oil that made it smooth and easier to handle. Now it looked a bit like Sansa’s, though plain brown instead of the pretty auburn color her sister had inherited from their Lady Mother. “Does he like little girls?”

Lady Ysilla chuckled and covered her mouth with her hand. It seemed she had mistaken Arya’s answer for a jape. “Oh, you are so funny, my Lady.”

“I am serious,” Arya replied. “Why would Harry want to marry  a girl like me? I barely ten and two, I have a horse face and my hair never is always a mess. Are there not any worthy brides in the Vale for him to marry?”

Lady Ysilla smiled warmly and touched Arya’s cheek. They had applied some sort of powder on her cheeks that had made Arya sneeze, but it was supposed to make your cheeks rosy, whatever that meant.

“You have pretty eyes and I am sure you will grow even prettier when you are flowered. Besides, you will have plenty of time to get to know Harry. It will be years before you can be properly wed.”

Arya felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.  _She must be lying_. _Nobody has ever called me pretty. _I am Arya Horseface. That is all I will ever be.__

Yet, she couldn’t share these thoughts with the other girl. She was her Uncle’s betrothed and had been nothing but kind to Arya since she had arrived here at Giant’s Lance. She was a lady, but not like Sansa. She had told Arya stories about hunting and seemed to be interested in other things besides stitching and boys. She had even offered Arya to take her riding.

“I thank you, my Lady,” Arya thanked her instead and climbed from the chair. She wore no shoes, but leggings that were warm and comfortable. Embarrassed, she stared back at Lady Ysilla, fishing for an answer.  _What would Sansa say? Probably something nice, like your hair is pretty or I like your dress_. “You are quite pretty too. I like your dress.”

Lady Ysilla blushed and touched her silken skirt. It was made of a pale green color and was held together by a golden thread. Her hair was coiled up in a bun and fastened with a golden hairnet decorated with emeralds.

“I thank you. I made it myself,” Lady Ysilla replied and blushed. “Do you like making dresses?”

Arya decided it would do no good to sugarcoat her lack of talent.

“I am good with other things…I am good with sums.”

Lady Ysilla chuckled.

“And you are very forward…like Mychel,” she said, her voice suddenly laced with sadness.

“Mychel?” Arya asked. “Who is that?”

“One of Lord Redford’s younger sons,” she explained. “His father wanted us to wed, but my father had to refuse Lord Redford’s offer. Mychel could not compare to a Lord Paramount.”

Arya nodded her head and looked down at her feet.  _I fucked up again. I don’t understand anything about this lady business._

_Well, let’s try again. Say something nice. Show interest._

“Was he nice?”

Lady Ysilla gave her a surprised look. “Who?”

“This Mychel.”

“Oh, well,” Lady Ysilla said and blushed. “He is very forward and a good swordsman at that. I used to admire his skill, but it is good that we didn’t wed. He didn’t love me. He is now wed to the girl of his heart…Lady Mya Stone.”

“A bastard?” Arya asked in awe. “I thought bastards are not allowed to wed highborn. My brother always said so. I think that is why he went to the Wall.”

Ysilla nodded her head and leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, Lord Redford disinherited his son for marrying her, but my father made sure that Mychel got a post at the Gates of the Moon. Please do not speak about it. It would only cause more gossip and I do not wish for people to speak ill about Mychel. He is a kind and good man who deserves nothing but happiness.”

Arya’s heart immediately softened towards the girl. It also reassured her that she could speak openly in front of her.

“My brother Jon..he hated the Night’s Watch so much that he ran away,” Arya added. “Your brother also joined the Night’s Watch, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Lady Ysilla replied sadly. “And we haven’t heard word of him in years. Father thinks he is dead, but I won’t give up on him until I see his corpse. I never wanted him to go, but my brother believed all these stupid stories the singers were planting into his head and begged father to be allowed to go. My mother wept for days and now she is blaming my father for my brother’s death.”

“At least your brother can come back,” Arya replied softly. “Mine would be considered an oathbreaker. I hope he stays far away. I don’t want to see him lose his head. It is all so stupid.”

“That is stupid indeed,” Lady Ysilla agreed wholeheartedly. “But boys never listen and never know what they want. Well, I hope my husband will be easier to handle.”

Arya had met Lord Edmure only briefly, but he seemed a pleasant man. “My Uncle is a good man. When Lord Tywin was attacking the Riverlands my Uncle allowed the smallfolk to take shelter behind the walls of Riverrun. His people love him. I am sure they will love you too, my Lady.”  _For the corn you bring_ , Arya wanted to add.  _And the food in their belly._ _Just like Gendry said._

“I shall try my best,” Lady Ysilla promised and jerked her head at the door, where the other ladies were waiting for them, all prim and proper and garbed in silken dresses and flowers in their hair. “A marriage to your Uncle is a great honor for our house. Father never thought I would wed that well. I shan’t disappoint him.”

Arya could only nod in silence. Her heart was still warring against the idea of marrying this Harry, but she had also made a promise to herself when she had returned to Riverrun, namely that she would try to be better and that she wouldn’t disappoint her Lady Mother. Bran and Rickon were dead and Sansa was missing. Arya was the only one left. She had a responsibility, as Gendry had pointed out.

_I shall try my best_ , she forced herself and followed after Lady Ysilla to join the feast that was about to be celebrated in the honor of their arrival.  _I shall try my best._

Arya wished she had been allowed to wear her boots when she was introduced to Harry the Harry, because her slippers had nearly fallen off due to the constant squirming motion of her feet. They were very pretty, all silver and embellished with small flowers made from a golden tread.

Arya didn’t know what to make of Harry the Heir either. He was older than her, tall and blond-haired. His eyes were blue, like Sansa’s. She supposed that made him pretty, but she could deduce by his tense jawline that he was not happy with the bride that had been chosen for him.

“Welcome, my lady,” he said and placed a frozen kiss on her hand. “I am pleased to finally meet you.”

Arya dropped a clumsy curtsy and forced a smile over her lips. “I am pleased too, my Lord.”

Harry said nothing and dropped her hand.

Neither Lord Royce nor Lady Waynwood, Harry’s guardian seemed to take note of their discomfort and had them seated next to each other.

Her Lady Mother was also there beside her and Lord Royce with his son Andar, Lady Ysilla Royce and Lord Beric Dondarrion’s squire…Edric, who was actually Lord Edric Dayne, the current Lord of Starfall. According to Lady Ysilla her Lord Father had asked Lord Beric Dondarrion to sit beside him at the high table, but Lord Dondarrion had refused. Arya was not surprised. He had risen from the death and sported the numerous scars.

_How is it possible_ , Arya mused for the hundred time since they had left the Inn at the Crossroad.  _How can a man rise from the dead?_

_Lord Thoros had called it a blessing by his god_ , but Arya wasn’t convinced. Something else was going on her.  _Something sinister._

Seeing Lord Beric Dondarrion seated among his men Arya couldn’t see anything strange about him, but that could only be the result of good acting.

His men didn’t seem bothered either. They were laughing and drinking, their singing voices echoing along the hall, held by massive stone pillars. Along the walls hung large scones holding a good dozen of torches which cast golden light against the green stone tiles the hall had been built from. Some were so smooth and polished that they glimmered like the emeralds in Lady Ysilla’s hair.

The food was also abundant. Lord Royce must have sent out men to hunt, for they had roasted two boars and a stag over an open cookfire, yet that was only the beginning. There were a dozen different kinds of meat to be had and cakes and pastes served that made Arya’s mouth water, but whenever she noticed Harry the Heir’s cold stare she lost her appetite. She was only glad that he was not speaking to her and the antics of the guests gave her enough diversion to waste her time.

For a while she watched their guardsmen who were enjoying the company of the girls serving the ale. The Hound, Ser Robin Darry and the Stranger were among them, but none of them looked as enthusiastic as their guardsmen.

The Hound was seated in the corner of the room, a tankard of ale placed before him and a frown apparent of his face as he eyed the people around him. Ser Robin Darry sat across him and was throwing the girls weary looks as if he was afraid they would strip him naked and carry him to their beds. The Stranger looked apathetic, his even-shaped face concealed by the hood of his cloak. Arya wondered how Ser Robin Darry convinced him to get rid of the bothersome crow he was constantly carrying on his shoulder.

“Lady Arya,” Lord Royce addressed her and caused her to angle her head. “Your brother informed me that you are a passionate rider?”

Arya continued to poke the buttered potatoes on her plate while she was pondering a proper answer.

Should she confirm it or deny it? Were ladies supposed to like riding? She didn’t know. In such moments she wished that Sansa was here.

“I love riding,” she gave him the truth. “Harwin says I can ride better than my Uncle Brandon who was supposedly ‘half a horse’.”

Lord Royce nodded his head in confirmation, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

“I recall your Uncle. He was a fine man if a bit too reckless for his own good. Your Aunt resembled you in appearance and was the same age when she first came to visit Ned in the Vale. Robert was immediately taken with her.”

“Did you hear that?” the elderly Lady Waynwood asked and flashed Harry an encouraging look. “Mayhaps you ought to take Lady Arya for a ride? Harry is a capable jouster, isn’t that so, Harry?”

“I suppose that is the case, my Lady,” Harry replied sullenly and brushed his fingers over the cup placed in front of him. “I have won a grand victory during my last tourney. Do you like jousting, my Lady?”

“I do, but I prefer the melee,” Arya replied politely. “It is more exciting to watch.”

Harry rolled his eyes and Lady Waynwood was quick to find another argument in Harry’s favor.

“Harry is also quit capable with the blade,” the elderly lady told Arya. “He Nearly defeated Mychel Redfort, one of the most promising young knights in the Vale. Ysilla can tell you everything about him.”

Arya smiled politely at the elderly woman after her Lady Mother had flashed her a chiding look.

“I heard of him, my Lady,” she confirmed, her grip tightening on the skirt of her dress. She wanted to be anything but here, but there was no escape. So much she could see. She had to play her role. “Impressive.”

The lie hurt, but her Lady Mother was watching her closely.

Harry chuckled drily and brought his cup to his lips. He drank and then he spoke again, his voice laced with mockery.

“Do you think Lady Arya would also like to hear about my two bastards daughters, my Lady?” he asked Lady Waynwood, his blue eyes watching Arya closely.

Arya was confused, for the other people seated at the table looked as if an ice storm had washed over them.  Lord Royce’ face showed embarrassment, Lady Waynwood looked as if she wanted to poke Harry with her fork, young Lord Dayne was pulling on the collar of his tunic  and her Lady Mother looked as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over her head.

Only Arya didn’t know what to make of Harry’s question. Why would she care about his bastard daughters? Her own brother was a bastard and he was the best person she knew.

She wrecked her brain for an answer. Should she react shocked? Or should she feign ignorance? Or perhaps Harry wanted her to like his daughters?

_Stop. Calm yourself. Just say what Sansa would say. Try to sound sweet and lady-like and all shall be well._

“Don’t fret, my Lord,” Arya replied politely and folded her hands in front of her like Sansa would have done. “I do not mind bastards. My brother Jon is a bastard and I love him dearly. What are your daughters called?”

Arya knew she did everything wrong when Lord Royce nearly dropped his knife, Lady Waynwood’s eyebrows rose to the top of her head, her Lady Mother’s lips formed to a firm pale line and young Lord Dayne looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but here, his violet eyes flickering back and forth between Arya and her Lady Mother.

Only Harry the Heir burst out in laughter, his cheeks deeply flushed.

“Gods!” he said and continued to laugh, holding his stomach. “Gods be good!”

“Harry, stop laughing!” Lady Waynwood snapped at the young man and quickly hopped to her feet. “This is unseemly for a man of your station!”

Harry continued to laugh while Lady Waynwood pulled anxiously on his arm, but she was not strong enough to pull him to his feet. Eventually, Lord Royce asked his son to show Harry and Lady Waynwood to the gardens to catch some fresh air.

When they were gone, Lord Royce graced Arya and her Lady Mother with an apologetic smile.

“Forgive him, my Ladies,” Lord Royce apologized. “He is a reckless lad and his bastard girls…Well, you have to forgive him for that as well. Lady Waynwood spoils him too much, but the girl is now wed and the bastards girls will be send to the motherhouse. They shall be no burden for us.”

Arya forced a smile over her lips and tried to sound like Sansa.

“I really don’t mind. He doesn’t have to send them away,” she assured him. “My brother Jon also lived with…,” she was about to continue, but her Lady Mother interrupted her quickly, her voice strained and unusually high.

“Arya!” she said. “Mayhaps it would be good for you to dance with Lord Dayne. It will help you to distract your mind.”

Arya didn’t want to dance, but judging by the tone in her Lady Mother’s voice she realized that it was better to follow her command.

“Of course, Lady Mother,” Arya said and hopped to her feet, shifting her attention to Lord Beric Dondarrion’s flustered squire. “What are you waiting for, Lord Dayne?”

Ned Dayne blushed deeply and took her arm, leading her to the dance floor.

Arya didn’t know what to make of that and leaned closer as they took position, one of her hands holding his and the other resting on her side.

“I am bad at this. Forgive me, for killing your feet.”

Ned Dayne’s violet eyes went wide with surprise, an innocent laugh spilling from his lips.

“I fear you won’t have much luck with me either, my Lady.”

Arya was pleased to hear this and tried her best to follow the beat of the drums and the sound of the lute. _Two steps right and two steps left_ , she reminded herself. _Or was it the other way around?_

Ned Dayne seemed to have the same problem and it took only a handful of steps before he stepped on her toes.

Arya didn’t mind the pain, though. She had way worse, but Ned Dayne apologized profoundly.

“As I said…I have two left feet,” Ned stuttered. “My Aunt Allyria says the same. She was Lord Beric Dondarrion’s betrothed.”

Arya didn’t know why he was telling her this, but she supposed he was just trying to distract her from his bad dancing.

“I see,” Arya replied. “He is different now, is he not?”

Edric nodded his head and blushed again when his hand had slipped a bit lower after Arya had moved sideways. “That is not the only problem. He doesn’t remember her.”

Arya didn’t believe her ears and was confused why he was blushing.

“Why are you blushing?”

His violet eyes widened.

“I…I am really blushing?”

“You are,” Arya confirmed and realized that she had embarrassed him.

“Well, you are a lady,” he confirmed and looked away, his violet eyes darting to her Lady Mother. “And I am clumsy…and so. Forgive me…,” he began, but Arya stepped on his toe to interrupt him.

“Stop apologizing. It is annoying. Tell me, something interesting.”

Ned frowned, pondering her demand, before a hesitant smile crossed over his lips.

“You mentioned your brother,” he said. “He is called Jon, isn’t he?”

Arya nodded her head in confirmation. “Jon is my brother.”

“And I know who his mother is,” he whispered, but gave a sudden yelp of pain when Arya stepped on his toes again.

“Who?” she asked, her heart racing with excitement. “Who is it?”

“Wylla,” he replied proudly. “My nursemaid. Your brother and I were milk brothers.”

Arya couldn’t believe it, but felt also anger spreading through her body _. Why would this Wylla leave Jon? Stupid cow._

“Where is this Wylla now?” Arya inquired quickly. ”Is she still alive?”

Ned Dayne nodded his head in confirmation.

“She serves my Aunt Allyria and is wed to a knight in my service. She has six children.”

Arya couldn’t help but to clench her teeth in anger.

_So, that is why she left him? She found herself some handsome knight and had more children with him._

_She sounds almost as stupid as Sansa._

_May the gods curse her._

“My Lady,” Ned Dayne said softly and Arya realized suddenly that the music was still playing, but that she had stopped moving. “Are you well?”

“No,” she couldn’t help but to snap at him and left him standing there, her heart pounding with rage. “Nothing is well.”

…


	76. Volantis

**Marwyn**

Volantis spread across the Rhoyne and the hills and marches sprawling along the river. The city was made of two halves ill-fitted together. There were the older districts located on the east bank and the newer districts located on the west bank of the river. Connecting these two halves was the Long Bridge, a beautiful specimen of Valyrian architecture. It was a massive road supported by massive piers the Valyrians had built on the height of their glory.  Its gateway was even more beautiful, an arch of black stone carved with sphinxes, manticores, dragons and other fearsome beasts if Marwyn’s memory didn’t betray him after all these years.

One hundred ships, Tormo Fregar had brought to Volantis, all of them beautiful in their own way. When Marwyn was a young boy growing up in Oldtown he had often worked as a ship hand to help feeding his mother and ten siblings, but even so he had never learned how to build these ships, though they were at least a hundred books about this topic available in the grand library of the Citadel.

 _To purge the practice of slavery_ , Tormo Fregar had told Marwyn, who had kept his thoughts to himself. Tormo Fregar might very well believe that he was doing these for the sake of an idealistic cause, but Marwyn had seen too much in his long life, namely that men often like to delude themselves about the truth.

 _No_ , he thought. _Tormo Fregar came here for another reason._ _He came to conqueror Volantis now that the slaves have risen up against their masters._

For a whole moon they had sailed, wrecked by two storms and a handful of shipwreck. Even, so Tormo Fregar and his captains had been more than optimistic throughout their travel. They had been almost too eager to go to battle, but when they had arrived the battle had already been fought.

Tormo Fregar had smiled as always and had commanded his ships in a small sea battle against the garrisoned fleet that had been left behind in Volantis until the enemy had realized that they came to offer their help against the masters. Even so, the slaves commanding these ships, had shown them nothing but mistrust even after Tormo had generously invited the captains on his precious ship. That evening the former slaves had supped on honeyed pig, fresh salmon garnished with spicy sea grass, sweet apples and cream cake. Marwyn hadn’t partaken in the meal, but he had observed the meeting between Tormo and the slaves. Almost all of them had sported green tiger stripes, marking them as former slave soldiers in the service of the Triarchs. Their dark skin had given evidence to their hard training and their blood-sprinkled leopard skins and silks had given evidence to the events that had transpired here.

 _The Red Hand has risen against the injustice of the masters_ , the captain had explained.  _We slew them in their beds and cushioned litters. We killed them on the street and in their bathes. We slew them everywhere we could find them. When the Black Walls fell the wailing of a thousand masters could be heard._

Tormo Fregar’s smile had been banished from his lips in that moment, but even so he had shared an abundant meal with the former slaves and had asked them to relay an invite to High Priest Benarro and the other slave leaders.

That morning two representatives had arrived. Regarro, was serving High Priest Benarro and he other was surprisingly a woman, scars tissue marring her cheeks, where her slave tattoos had been removed. She was also the first slave he had seen that didn’t garb herself in blood-streaked silks and called herself simply the Widow of the Waterfront.

“When shall I be able to meet with the High Priest?” Tormo asked before he tore a piece of white flesh from his roasted pigeon covered with a golden crust of honey and herbs. “I have been patiently waiting for entrance into the city. I do want to lend my strength to your cause.”

“Plundering would be the better description, isn’t that so, your Lordship?” the Widow asked Tormo, her pigeon still untouched.

They were seated around a gilded table, a colorful chandelier looming over their heads. Marwyn was watching the scene through a slit of green silk, a golden cup of watered wine in hand. He had managed to drink all of it despite being engrossed by Tormo Fregar’s friends.

He was a very attentive host, but bluntness was not something he was used to. It was amusing to behold his reaction.

“Don’t you know who I am, my Lady?” he asked and grinned. “I am Sealord Tormo Fregar, a true Braavosi. I would never steal from you. We share the same cause.”

“I am no Lady, but a whore,” the woman replied as bluntly as before. “And stop giving me these honeyed words, your Lordship. Let us speak plainly instead. It is well-known that Braavos dislikes slavery, but what has Braavos ever done for us? You, who has known a life of sighs and pleasures. You know nothing of our plight and that is why we shall not allow your men to enter the city. You may try, of course, but we shall await you with swords and fire. We have killed the Old Tiger’s butchers, we can take it up with a handful of Braavosi merchants.”

Marwyn felt respect for the woman, but she didn’t seem to understand who she was speaking to. The Sealord’s men were not just fools armed with pitchforks and spears, but some of the finest swords of Braavos. The Westerosi knights might laugh about their water dancing, but they were fast and skilled, much more skilled than a handful of slaves.

This would surely end in a terrible butchery, though he couldn’t help but to feel sympathy for the slaves. He had seen enough of their plight in his many travels throughout Essos. Of course, there were those slaves that were blessed with good masters, but those were one in a hundred, lucky souls indeed.

Luckily, Tormo Fregar didn’t seem all too interested in a butchery.

“Nobody wants war, my Lady. I all want is to find an arrangement that suits both sides. I say it again, I wish to offer my services to your cause. You have gained control of the city and the Black Walls, but you will also have need of allies. How will you feed your people? With blood and ash?”

“Those who allow R’hllor into their hearts shall never want for anything, neither food nor drink,” said Regarro, who had observed their exchange with glinting red eyes. He was a middle-aged man of thin face and his cheeks sported swirling red and golden tattoos that seemed to glow whenever the light of the chandelier fell upon them. Marwyn had made the acquaintance of such priests before, but until now he hadn’t taken them particularly seriously.  Well, this one sounded very convinced of his god.

Tormo Fregar leaned back in his chair, his eyes eying the man in front of him warily. “I admit, I am not very familiar with your god, but that is why I wish to speak with your High Priest,” he explained and sighed. Then, he continued to explain. “Well, would he be disposed for a meeting at a place of his choice? I would only bring my personal guard.”

“That could be arranged,” Regarro returned politely. “The Temple of Light could serve as such a meeting place, your Lordship.”

“That would please me,” Tormo Fregar replied and shifted his attention back to the Widow. “Can your people accept this as well?

The Widow gave an accepting nod and lifted her cup. “On your honor, your Lordship.”

Then, she drank deeply.

Tormo Fregar imitated her actions and lifted his cup. “On my honor, my Lady.”

He drank deeply and not long after Regarro and the Widow left to return to their people.

“What stubborn people,” he muttered to himself as he turned around and passed through the silken drapes.

“Did you think they would welcome you as liberators, your Lordship?” Marwyn asked as he met Tormo Fregar’s gaze. “They think you are here to enslave them, perhaps not with chains, but in other ways. They are not waiting for you, but for the Mother of Dragons or better said Azor Ahai.”

Tormo Fregar looked displeased and brushed the dust from his golden cloak. “Which is why I will have need of your friend, Prince Aemon. How is he faring?”

“Better,” Marwyn replied, slowly realizing why Tormo Fregar had offered his help to them in the first place. Aemon was the key to Princess Daenerys’ trust. It was all too clear. “But he is also an old man and will not live for long. The Princess ought to hurry.”

Tormo Fregar nodded his head in agreement and waved his hand at Marwyn’s empty cup. “Do you care for another cup?”

“Aye,”  Marwyn replied and followed Tormo into his private solar, a round chamber that was furnished with crimson drapes, Myrish carpets, lion heads and a massive featherbed bed that was covered with heavy brocade. They sat down at a polished table, a steaming brazier placed behind them. Fearsome beasts of vivid colors sprawled along the walls and the golden ceiling made Marwyn roll his eyes. Why do these men of power have such an obsession with gold?

“Your Lordship,” the gentle voice of a woman caused Marwyn to turn around. He recognized her immediately. She was his mistress or so he had heard. “Do you have need of me?”

“Yes, sweeting,” he cooed and the Lady drew closer. She was a woman of slender build and wore golden and yellow robes, a crimson cloak wound around her left shoulder fastened with a golden coin. Her hair was black as ink and her face looked as if it had been carved by an artist. It was an even-shaped face with a straight nose, high cheekbones and full lips.  “Come here. Would you sing for us?”

Tormo Fregar smiled at Marwyn. “Do you care for music?”

Marwyn shrugged his shoulders. He had hoped for a different kind of diversion, but he didn’t want to displease his host.

“Do you have a song you like to sing, my Lady?” he asked the Lady.

The Lady graced him with an enigmatic smile. “I know every song from Essos. Name one and I shall sing it for you?”

Marwyn nodded his head in embarrassment. He had never taken time to study this part of Essos’ culture. “Do you know a Westerosi song?”

The woman lowered head as if to apologize.

“I do not know songs from these strange lands.”

Tormo Fregar chuckled and re-filled Marwyn’s cup. “Now you are lying, my sweet. I have heard you sing a Westerosi song before. What was it called again?…Oh, I remember now. _The Seasons of My Love_.”

A strange tension washed over the woman, as if she had suddenly recalled a long-forgotten memory.

“I forgot this song you speak of. I must have heard it somewhere. The sailor’s perhaps. Forgive me, your Lordship, but I do not recall the song,” she apologized and lowered her head deeply. “Do you care to hear another song?”

Tormo Fregar looked displeased.

“I do not care for another song. Mayhaps you need rest to revive your memory.”

The Lady dropped a deep curtsy and left.

Not long after, Marwyn was dismissed and returned to his ailing travelling companion.

As he expected, he found Maester Aemon awake, his milky eyes searching Marwyn’s form in the darkness that must surround him day and night.

“It is me,” Marwyn assured his old friend and sat down on the chair next to his bed. The old Maester looked like a swaddled babe, covered with several layers of fur and bedding to keep him warm. “Marwyn.”

Maester Aemon chuckled lightly.

“I could tell by featherlight steps. You are almost a dancer, old friend.”

Marwyn frowned. “Stop your jesting. I am as  far from being a dancer as you are from being a King.”

Aemon chuckled, but his face was incredibly pale and his skin felt clammy. He was growing weaker, so much Marwyn could tell. “And I am glad for it. I doubt I would have grown as old as I am now if I had taken the crown.”

“But in hindsight you were much better suited for this position than your brother. Your brother was always a child, not prepared for the responsibilities of a King. He should have never trusted the Maesters with his plans,” Marwyn had replied as he had shifted his attention to the flagon of water placed at the nearby table. He had quickly poured the water into the cup and had fumbled for the bundle of herbs in the vest of his cloak. With a handful of quick motions he had opened the bundle and had dissolved it in the cup of water, which he was now holding to Aemon’s lips.

“Aye, perhaps you are right,” Aemon replied sadly after he had taken a sip from the cup. “But what is done cannot be undone. Let us rather speak of the present. Pray tell me, has his Lordship been allowed entrance to the city?”

“Not yet,” Marwyn replied. “But the Red Priests and the slaves sent representatives. I think there will soon be a parley.”

“Any word of my niece?” his old friend asked, his voice laced with fear and hope.

“Not yet,” Marwyn replied and patted Maester Aemon’s hand. “But I am sure it is only a matter of time.”

“Time I do not have. Perhaps it would be best if I dictated my…,” Aemon began, but Marwyn cut him off, before he could speak further.

“The glass candles showed me dragons,” he told his friend. It was only half a lie. He had seen dragons, but that didn’t mean they would arrive in time. “They will come here. This I can promise.”

…


	77. Sins

**Catelyn**

The sound of Ser Darry‘s lute was melancholic. It was a song that touched her heart and made her think of her dead children…

 _No_ , she reminded herself.  _Sansa could still be alive. She hasn’t been found. King Stannis’ man wouldn’t lie to Robb. He has need of his help._

It was a fool’s hope, but hope was all she had.

She closed her eyes as the song rose in a last crescendo before drifting off into sweet nothingness.

“Forgive me, my Lady,” Ser Darry said, his voice laced with sudden  sadness. “I see…now you are sad.”

She was seated on a low bench, the chandelier above casting a soft glow over the long chamber that served as Lady Royce’s solar.

Lady Royce was a pleasant woman of fourty namedays, her dark hair already streaked with grey. She had kept Cat company all evening, but had eventually been forced to attend to her duties, leaving Cat to herself as Arya had left to ride out in company of Lady Ysilla Royce and young Ned Dayne.

Cat had done her best to distract herself and had spent the rest of the evening in the Sept of Runestone. It had felt so strange to go to a proper Sept after having spent so many years in the North, it had also helped to calm her mind.

There she had also found Ser Robin Darry. He had left her at peace, but Cat had asked him to join her, partly because she had felt need for a proper diversion and partly  because she was curious about the man.  House Darry had served the Mad King during the Rebellion, but House Darry had also fought for Robb against the Lannisters.

“My Lady,” Ser Darry’s calm voice called her back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”

Cat smiled with embarrassment and brushed her tears away. “Isn’t that the purpose of music? To touch the heart?”

Ser Darry smiled and put the lute away.

“I suppose that is true,” Ser Darry added and lifted the cup in front of him to his lips. It was watered wine and beside it lay a silver plate stacked with small cakes the ladies had enjoyed for tea. “But that was not my intention. I hoped to make your heart lighter. Wasn’t the reason you went to the Sept, my Lady?”

Cat was not surprised. Ser Darry was a very observant man.

“So much is true,” Catelyn confirmed. Over the last days, she had been pondering the past, the present and the future, trying to collect her thoughts. “I was trying to make sense of everything that has happened. I will have need of a clear mind when I speak with Lord Royce. Handling  Petyr Baelish will a difficult endeavor.”

“I do not know this Lord Baelish,” Ser Darry replied. “But if he managed to rise to the position of Lord Protector of the Vale by seducing your sister he must be a good lover.”

It had sounded almost like a joke to her, but Ser Darry remained serious as ever.

Catelyn shook her head. It should have made her uncomfortable to speak with him about such personal matters, but strangely she didn’t mind.

“My sister always loved Petyr,” Catelyn explained futher. “But my father wanted her to wed an important lord. First, he wanted her to wed Ser Jaime Lannister, but then he joined the Kingsguard. Afterwards, my father was hoping for a match with  Lord Jon Arryn’s heir, but all that was ruined when Elbert Arryn was murdered by King Aerys. Thus, she was wed to Lord Jon Arryn himself. My sister had been weeping throughout the entire ceremony and she never came to love Lord Arryn. On the contrary, I think she hated him.”

“I too was wed to a woman my father chose for me,” Ser Darry explained. “It was a horrid match. She was the kind of girl who enjoyed her life to the fullest and I…Well, I was a shy lad who had never touched a woman when she came to my bed. I didn’t know what to do with her and she didn’t know what to do with me. Eventually, one of the guardsmen found her fucking the stable boy. My father had the marriage annulled and had her punished. Strangely, I only felt pity for her, my Lady.”

Catelyn was surprised to hear this from a man.

“You were not enraged that she tarnished your family’s honor?”

“Honor,” Ser Darry repeated and shook his head. “She was only a silly girl, who didn’t know any better. I was determined to hate her like everyone expected it from me, but as I said…I only felt pity for her when I saw her tears…,” he trailed off.

Then, he laughed like a man that had recalled something particularly funny.

“You know what I did afterwards, my Lady? I asked my father to forgive her as well and hand back her dowry. My father asked me if I was mad and the girl was forced to join the Silent Sisters. Not even her own father wanted to take her back. She killed herself shortly after.”

Cat couldn’t help but to notice the bitterness in his voice as he had told her about his wife's fate.

“Did you love her after all?”

Ser Darry laughed again. “Oh, no, my Lady. I was only a boy then. I knew nothing of love nor did she. It was the war that turned me into a man.”

Cat tensed.

“The Battle of the Trident.”

Ser Darry didn’t flinch. On the contrary, he remained calm as ever.

“Aye, the Battle of the Trident. A terrible battle for all parties concerned, though I admit my memories are blurred. Truly, it is a miracle that I survived.”

“And your friend,” Cat remarked. “The Stranger. Isn’t that what you call him? Why?”

For the first time since the start of their conversation, Ser Darry looked surprised.

“Unlike me, he lost his memory,” Ser Darry replied. “He doesn’t know his real name and thus one of the brothers started to call him ‘the Stranger’. It is better than to have no name at all.”

Cat nodded her head. “Still, he seems capable with the lance. He must have been a knight. Someone must be able to put a name on him.”

“I am sure of that,” Ser Darry replied. “But I am not sure if he wants his old life back. At times, it feels as if he doesn’t want to remember. The previous Elder Brother had tried his best, but it was no use.”

“And now you are taking care of him,” Cat added. “It is admirable.”

Ser Darry didn’t seem to appreciate her flattery. He only lifted his cup and sipped from the wine, before smoothing out his roughspun cloak.

“I am not a very admirable man, my Lady. Mayhaps I have sinned less than most men, but I am still a sinner. I besmirched myself with innocent blood.”

Cat had suspected something like that.

“Do you regret killing for the Mad King?”

Ser Darry laughed again.

“Please don’t call him that, my Lady,” Ser Darry asked of her. “He was a pitiful man who is deserving of compassion like all sinners.”

Cat was stunned by his answer. It went against everything she had been thought.

“They say the Mad King got what he deserved. I hated him for what he did to Brandon and Lord Rickard and all the other good men that died.”

Ser Darry nodded his head in understanding.

“Good and bad man die in war, my Lady. Perhaps that is the worst about it, but it is a fact we cannot ignore. That said…I know what lies your father and the other rebel lords are spreading about the King I have fought for, but I can tell you this… King Aerys was not born mad nor is his blood curse. He was a promising Prince, who was corrupted by flatterers and his crown. It turned him proud and vain, but the same could be said about many other high lords. Truly, humility is not a quality easily found among the nobility of Westeros. And your father was one of these _proud men_ , my Lady. You said it yourself. Your father wed your sister off for _power_.”

“Jon Arryn was  a good man,” Cat countered, but Ser Darry’s piercing gaze silenced her. There was nothing threatening about it, but it made her rethink her answer.

“He was a good man,” Ser Darry confirmed. “I have never met him, but his people spoke well of him and called him an honorable man. Truly, honor is an admirable quality, but it doesn’t make one a loving husband nor does it help to win the heart of a girl much younger than oneself.”

“My Ned is an honorable man,” Cat added. “He won my heart.”

“That is good for you, my Lady,” Ser Darry countered, watching her with great interest. “But that doesn’t help to ease your sister’s pain and now you are going to destroy her happiness again.”

“True,” Catelyn agreed and swallowed hard. “But Petyr is dangerous. He needs to go.”

“I suppose so,” Ser Darry agreed.

Catelyn exhaled deeply, her mind wandering back to what Ser Darry had said about her father.

“You don’t like my father, do you?”

Ser Darry nodded his head in confirmation.

“No, my Lady. I do not like your father. He robbed my family of lands and titles for serving  _their_ King, though I am trying my best to forgive him.”

“He is dead,” Catelyn told him and searched his face for a reaction. “He died with a heavy heart.”

“Such is the fate of many old men,” Ser Darry replied. “But I am sure he had the comfort of a soft bed, a fate not many men can claim to share.”

“So much is true,” Catelyn agreed and folded her hands in front of her. She wouldn’t accept defeat that easily. “But wasn’t my father a better man than King Aerys? He was a monster and his son…he was a rapist. He stole away my Ned’s sister and caused her death. How can you defend a man like that?”

“Defend?” Ser Darry asked, obviously taken back by her words. “I would never defend King Aerys’s crimes, but there is something I have learned through my life as a healer: Nobody is born wicked. All have men have good and evil residing in their hearts and most men do evil because evil was done to them. King Aerys committed horrible crimes, but there was evil done to him as well. Have you heard about Duskendale, my Lady?”

Cat nodded her head.

“Everyone has.”

“The King was betrayed and subject to the vilest treatment possible. Prince Rhaegar told me about it once: The King was a skeleton and covered with blue and red bruises when he returned to the Red Keep. It was a miracle that he didn’t die.”

A soft gasp left Cat’s mouth.

“I didn’t know that, but even so…his son wouldn’t have been any better. A man who rapes an innocent maid and leaves her dying in a tower couldn’t have been a worthy King.”

Ser Darry lifted his cup back to his lips and drank the rest of the wine, before speaking again.

“That is what Robert Baratheon wanted to _believe_ ,” he said. Suddenly, Cat read hostility in his Ser Darry’s eyes, an emotion he obviously wanted to conceal. “But I can assure you…Prince Rhaegar didn’t rape Lyanna Stark. On the contrary, He loved her dearly. Why else would he crown her Queen of Love and Beauty?"

“Surely, you are jesting, Ser Darry?” Cat asked in disbelief. “Lady Lyanna was a child and she was Ned’s sister. She would never…,” she began, but suddenly recalled what Ned had told her about his sister a long time ago.

 _Our Arya inherited my sister’s willful character_ , he had jested after Arya had come home, covered in mud and her hair in complete disarray. _No. It can't be. Ser Darry is obviously trying to confuse me._

“I am not jesting,” Ser Darry replied without hesitation. “I am only telling you what I _believe_. I have known Prince Rhaegar since he was a young boy and he was not the kind of person who would rape a helpless girl. His and Princess Elia’s marriage was a ‘dutiful match’, but whatever happened between him and Lady Lyanna were just the stirrings of love.”

“But she was betrothed,” Catelyn insisted firmly, but realized how stupid that sounded. Being betrothed didn’t keep maids from seeking out other men’s beds. _No. She was Ned's sister. This is all wrong_. “And Robert Baratheon was a Lord Paramount…he was a good-looking man and burned with love for Lady Lyanna. Why would she choose him over Prince Rhaegar?”

Ser Darry smiled mildly.

“Did you love Lord Brandon, my Lady?”

Cat was taken back by this question.

“No,” she replied bluntly. “I found him pleasant to look at and he made me smile, but I do not think I loved him. I might have come to love him like Ned, but we will never know. Besides, it is not me and Brandon we were speaking about. We were speaking about Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna. Forgive me, but it just surprises me that a man _like you_ would besmirch a girl’s honor.”

Ser Darry smiled thinly as he suddenly rose to his feet and jerked his head at an invisible person behind her.

“Welcome back, my Ladies and Lord,” Ser Darry offered as he left the room, leaving Cat to attend to her daughter.

Cat couldn’t help but to gasp when she saw the state of Arya’s borrowed dress and it made her quickly forget about the nonsense Darry had been telling her. The seam was torn around the collar, but that was not the worst of it. Her cloak was also torn on one side and leaves and brambles were sticking in her daughter's hair.

“I fell from my horse,” Arya informed her with an embarrassed look. “It was an accident. I swear it.”

“It is true,” Lord Edric Dayne added sweetly and blushed when Cat’s eyes met his. “The horse stumbled and Lady Arya kissed the the ground. I first thought she got a sprained ankle, but when I and Lady Ysilla wanted to help her back to her feet she assured us that she is well.”

Cat nodded her head and graced the boy with a warm smile. “Well, the dress will have to see a seamstress.”

“It is no bother, my Lady,” Lady Ysilla replied softly and lowered the hood of her cloak. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was hanging loose from its usual coil. “I have plenty of dresses and Lady Arya is always welcome to borrow more of them.”

Cat didn’t know what to say, but decided there was no use in chiding her daughter. She was trying her best, so much she knew. The incident with Lord Harrold’s little bastard girls had been rather unpleasant, but Lord Royce had promised to take care of it and Lady Waynwood had apologized profoundly for her ward’s behavior.

Thus, Cat smiled instead and picked a handful of leaves from Arya’s torn braids. “We better get you a proper bath. You look like a child of the forest.”

Arya looked relieved and graced Cat with a crooked smile.

“But not too hot, please,” she asked politely and Cat gave an accepting nod in return.

Hot water was the best way to remove dirt, but with Arya that was a lost cause. She got dirty, no matter how often she was scrubbed clean.

The water ranged somewhere between lukewarm and hot, when Cat left Arya to enjoy her bath.

One of the girls assigned to Cat had promised to help Arya when she was done with her bath, which allowed Cat to refresh herself for the upcoming talk with Lord Royce.

She too had borrowed a dress from Lady Royce, made of a navy-blue cloth and white trimmings.

When she returned to look after Arya, she found her freshly dressed and her wet hair braided over her shoulder.

She looked clean and proper. It was a seldom sight, but a sight that pleased Cat greatly.

“Now you look proper again,” Cat praised her and placed a kiss on Arya’s cheek. “But tonight you shall take your supper in company of Lord Dayne and Lady Ysilla.”

Arya shrugged her shoulders, but her grey eyes glinted with curiosity.

“Why?”

“Lord Royce and I have to speak about important matters. That would bore you.”

“Will Harry join us again?”

Cat heard the sound of derision in her daughter’s voice.

“No, Harry will join me and Lord Royce. You shall be deprived of his company for tonight, daughter.”

“I shall be pleased to eat with him on the morrow,” Arya promised her and went to join Lady Ysilla.

When Cat entered the room, she found Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood and Lord Harrold Hardyng seated around a gilded table, covered with a green cloth.

Laid out on the table she saw silver plates, cups and the rest of the glimmering cutlery.

Lady Waynwood was already shoveling soup into her mouth when Catelyn sat down beside her.

“Please forgive my delay, Lord Royce,” she apologized and smiled.

One of the page boys was quick to pour wine into her cup and another boy brought her a silver bowl and filled with a creamy soup covered with bits of roasted bread and mint.

The soup was too hot to eat and Lord Royce was watching her over the table, his silver plate empty and his cup of wine untouched beside him. He enjoyed a good meal, so much Cat had seen during the feast he had hosted in honor of their arrival, but today he didn’t seem in the mood for an abundant feast.

Even Harrold Hardyng seemed to keep away from the wine.

“So, will you finally tell Lady Stark about your intentions, Yohn?” Lady Waynwood asked after she had dropped her spoon into the soup. “I think we forced her to wait long enough.”

Cat felt a strange tension washing over her as she noticed Lord Royce's frown.

“Very well,” Lord Royce said and leaned back in his chair, the old wood producing a shrieking sound. “Let’s speak about our plans. To put it simple, my Lady….I have spent the last weeks gathering my allies to put an end to Lord Baelish’s rule and plan to confront him with the hard facts.”

“Namely?” Cat asked and played with her silver spoon.

“That we want him to resign from his position as Lord Protector of the Vale and that he has to hand over Lord Robin Arryn to us.”

“Reasonable conditions,” Cat agreed. “But you ought to be careful. Petyr is a clever man. He will be prepared.”

Lord Royce nodded his head. “I know what a clever man he is, but with your presence there I think it will be harder to trick us. They say, he was most taken with you in his youth. Isn’t that so, Lady Stark?”

“I suppose Petyr was taken with me when I was younger,” she said and swallowed hard, deciding that it was time to reveal the truth. “Which is why I told Ned to trust him…a terrible mistake.”

Lord Royce’s eyebrows had risen to the top of his head and Lady Waynwood had stopped eating, her eyes boring into Cat.

It was Lord Hardyng who broke the silence.

“Why is that, my Lady?”

“It led to Ned’s imprisonment. Petyr betrayed him.”

Lord Royce’s eyebrows had descended within the matter of a heartbeat.

“How?” he asked. “Why?”

“The Hound told me,” Cat replied hesitatingly. “Ned planned to take Prince Joffrey and his mother into custody, but to accomplish this task he had need of the Gold Cloaks. Well, Petyr promised to bribe them in his favor, but…Well, he didn’t.”

“I see,” Lord Royce said and brought the cup to his pale lips. He drank, his eyebrows rising back to the top of his head. When he placed the cup down with a clinking sound, he continued to speak. “Well, it seems this treacherous man has also managed to wrap my cousin around his little finger by granting him a title he has desired for a long time. There are more who are supporting him, but if we stand united we can get rid of him. I am sure of it.”

Cat wasn’t so sure about that, but tried to remain hopeful.

“Petyr became Lord Protectors of the Vale thorough King Joffrey’s support. King Stannis needs to win this war in order to get rid of Petyr.”

Lord Royce’s face darkened.

“He is King Robert’s brother and the rightful heir, but there are those in the Vale who do not love him as well as they did his brother. His allegiance with this heathen woman makes them even more suspicious. Besides, I cannot go to war without the approval of my liege lord and said lord is sadly in the hands of your sister and her new husband.”

Cat had thought so much. Lord Royce might be prepared to go against Lysa, but it shouldn’t have surprised her that he wanted to do this the proper way.

“i understand,” Cat agreed. “Even though I am not sure how much of a help I can be to you.”

“You mentioned the Hound,” Lady Waynwood added and leaned forward. “I wanted to ask this before. How in the mother’s name did the Mountain’s brother end up in your employ?”

“Our guardsmen got wounded in a skirmish with highwaymen and the Elder Brother offered him as an additional sword,”  Catelyn explained. “At first, I was skeptical, but now I think it was fate that we found him at the Quiet Isle. He can attest to Petyr’s guilt as he served in King Joffrey’s court.”

“So much is true,” Lord Harrold added. “But are you sure he is telling the truth? Wouldn’t a man like the Hound tell a lie just to get a warm bed and supper?”

“Perhaps,” Lady Waynwood added hesitantly. “But that doesn’t have to bother us as long as he helps us to get rid of Petyr Baelish.”

Lord Royce looked less pleased. “I do not enjoy making common cause with the Hound, but it seems desperate times demand desperate measures.”

Catelyn smiled, though she felt great apprehension when she thought of meeting her sister again.

“Indeed. Desperate times demand desperate measures.”

 …


	78. Azor Ahai

**Daenerys**

A warm breeze touched her skin as she stepped from the _Rhaenys_.

Volantis didn’t look as she recalled it from her childhood. The smell of death and smoke hung in the air. It was a smell she wanted to forget.

They had heard rumors that Volantis had fallen into chaos and that the slaves had risen up against their Masters, butchering them in their beds and plundering the Black Walls, the part of the city that was usually barred to foreigners and to those that lacked noble blood.

Viserys and her had once been guests in these precious mansions with their gilded doors and silver-tiled roof-tops, but only a moon later they had been cast out. That was one of the few times Dany had seen her brother weep and when she had tried to comfort her he had slapped her hard, making her spit blood.

 _A dragon cannot be weak_ , he had snarled at her and they had left the city on the same day, fearful that the usurper’s swords could find them any moment.

 _And if you had shown a little bit of patience you would still be here_ , she thought as she watched her children soar over the sky and casting shadows over the green sea and harbor. Everywhere she looked she saw beautiful ships, sailing under the golden banner of a laughing face. Those were Braavosi galleys, so much Dany could tell by their looks, but what they were doing here was a mystery to her. Had they conquered the city? She couldn’t say. That the fleet had made no attempt to stop them from entering the harbor had surprised her even more.

When Dany had finally left her ship, a good hundred men had greeted them with spears and axes, but when they had seen the dragons they had fallen to their knees, kissing her feet and asking for Azor Ahai’s blessing.

Dany had been startled by the men’s behavior, but when she had seen their tattoos they she understood.

She had thanked them and they had given their names, promising to speak to their leaders on her behalf.

Dany had been pleased, but Jon, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan had voiced their concerns while Moqurro had told her that she had finally reached her destiny.

 _Azor Ahai_ , Dany recalled, but still didn’t know what to make of this. Mirri had made her believe that she wouldn’t ever have a child of her own. She couldn’t allow herself to be swayed by these things again, though she often felt tempted to do so. What other explanation could there be for her strange dreams and the visions she had beheld in the House of the Undying?

Even so, she felt apprehension when she saw the entourage of men and women spilling upon the harbor. Most of them wore fiery robes and sported colorful tattoos. Amon them were also former slaves that were now wearing silken clothing and carried spears, swords and daggers.

There were also soldiers among them, wearing shiny copper armor and crimson cloaks that reminded her of the dying sunshine. Their long spears, which reminded her of the Unsullied’s weapons were equally impressive, but they were nothing to the children of R’hllor.

To Dany they looked all the same. They were men and women of a different skin color, but all were garbed in crimson cloaks and marked with orange and golden tattoos.

Their leader, presumedly High Priest Benerro, was carried in a wooden litter.

The High Priest or the First Servant of R’llor as Moqorro preferred to refer to him was a tall and thin man with a shaved head, a drawn face and skin as white as milk. Slave tattoos of flames covered his cheeks, chin and shaved head forming to a bright red mask that crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth.

Silence reigned as the man climbed from his litter, his shiny red robes glimmering in a strange light. Sometimes they appeared to be red and sometimes they appeared to be orange.

Dany had her Unsullied line up and asked her Dothraki riders to leave their horses behind. They stood behind her, their dark eyes watching the Red Priests with mistrust. Beside her was Jon, followed by Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah. Lady Lyanna had stayed behind and had promised to take care of Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion, something that pleased Dany. She didn’t want the dwarf anywhere near her. The same went for Moqorro, but she owed him a debt for helping her in Meereen…

 _Beware of the Dark Flame_ , she had been warned. _Moqorro certainly fulfilled this description._

“I am High Priest Benerro, the Flame of Truth, the First Servant of R’hllor,” he introduced himself, fell to his knees and kissed the ground. The others followed like puppets without strings. “We welcome Daenerys Targaryen, Azor Ahai reborn.”

Jon gave her a sideways glance and Dany felt a hint of discomfort washing over her. She liked it when people showed her respect, but this man was a stranger to her and gave her a title she neither understood nor cared for.

“Please rise,” she replied in a queenly tone. “Please rise.”

The man rose and the others followed suit as if they were connected by an invisible string.

“I saw how you woke dragons from tone.  The red comet was your bloody herald.”

“I woke dragons from stone and there was indeed a bleeding comet,” she confirmed and tried her best to be polite. “But I do not understand what it means to be Azor Ahai. Mayhaps you will enlighten me about _my destiny_?”

“I read doubt in your face,” Benerro remarked bluntly, his eyes piercing into her, cutting open her heart. “But that is understandable. Azor Ahai also felt doubt. I shall answer all your questions. Will you be my guest and come to the Tempel of Light tonight?”

That was a reasonable offer she couldn’t refuse. “I shall be honored to be your guest.”

Benerro smiled. “I shall be honored,” he said and drew closer. Jon tensed beside her, but Dany graced him with an assuring smile as she stretched out her hand. The Priest touched his lips to palm, his mouth hot like a children’s breath, before retreating again.

“Come tonight, when the first stars lighten the sky.”

Dany forced a smile over her lips and waved her hand at Moqorro. “See, First Servant of R’hllor. I return to you a loyal servant.”

Moqorro kissed the ground before the High Priest, before returning into the arms of his brothers and sisters.

Dany was glad for it and returned to her ship.

“Strange men, these priests,” Ser Barristan remarked as he loomed over Dany, his white cloak falling over his right shoulder. “I do not trust their intentions, your Grace.”

“Nor do I,” Jon added and picked a handful of raisins from the bowl in front of him. “Have you seen the smoke? And the smell…a great butchery took place in this city, Daenerys.”

Dany knew all that, but bloodshed would have been avoidable. Volantis had been the heart of slavery and to cleanse the city of this practice would have always been necessary to reach a different future. Yet, that didn’t mean she approved of these Red Priests. She knew they liked to use sacrifices to work their magic.

According to Ser Barristan, her Lord Father had also taken great joy in burning men alive.

After hearing this she had sworn that she wouldn’t be like him.

And even so, she had burned men: The Shavepate and some of the ships that had attacked Meereen.

 _I have no sword_ , she realized then and circled her golden cup between her fingers.  _Only fire, A flaming sword._

The thought amused her. Is that why they call me Azor Ahai? He had a flaming sword, didn’t he? Moqorro had mentioned something like that.

“I don’t trust them either, but I do not think they will harm me. I shall go to the Tempel of Light and speak to the High Priest.”

“Good,” Ser Jorah added coldly, his cup of wine still untouched. “But you should take the Blood Riders and the Unsullied with you. We cannot take a risk.”

Dany appreciated his concern for her, but she didn’t want any quarrels between her allies and Ser Jorah.

“You will stay here Ser Jorah,” she replied and graced him with a quick smile. “Jon and Ser Barristan shall accompany me instead. You and Greyworm must keep the Tattered Prince, my Dothraki and the Unsullied from killing each other, an important task I can only entrust to you.”

Ser Jorah looked very displeased, but Dany wasn’t surprised by that. He disliked that she valued Barristan over him and had voiced his thoughts on this matter numerous times.

_The man allowed the Pretender to escape. He is incompetent and a potential traitor. Do not keep him close, your Grace. He will only disappoint you again._

Dany hadn’t believed her ears, but then Ser Jorah always had the tendency to speak bluntly. Dany had of course chided him for his behavior, though he was not completely wrong. Ser Barristan had failed her, but Ser Jorah was not the kind of person who should judge others.

A moment of silence passed before Ser Jorah lowered his head in understanding. “I shall do as you ask, your Grace.”

Dany was pleased to hear this and dismissed Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah to prepare for the meeting with the High Priest.

Her handmaids brought her hot water, soap and perfume. Normally, they would help her wash, but instead she had asked Jon to keep her company.

She also forced him to wash his hair, which seemed to please him until she had put a pinch of lavender tincture into dark locks.

“I am a man, Dany,” he complained as he was putting on his boots. “I do not want to smell like a courtesan.”

Dany laughed, for she enjoyed vexing him. In Essos, both men and women liked to smell nice, but to Northmen perfume seemed like preposterous idea.

“Does it help if I say that I like your smell natural smell?” she asked and placed a kiss on his cheek.

He frowned, but she noticed a hint of a smile crossing his lips as he pulled her into his lap. “Well, that makes feel much better.”

She felt the sudden urge to lose herself in his embrace, but she needed to dress for the meeting with the High Priest and she would need her handmaids for that.

“Go now,” she told him and freed herself from his grip. “I must look proper when I meet with the High Priest.”

Jon chuckled and rose to his feet, fastening his new cloak around his shoulders. This one was black with a red dragon stitched on the front and fastened with a silver pin in the form of a wolf.

 _A dragon and a wolf_ , she thought and was pleased to see him somewhat reconciled with the past.

Since he had spoken to Lady Lyanna he was much less gloomy.

The Tempel of Light was smaller than the Great Pyramid of Meereen, but was still impressive to behold. It was an enormity of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes and towers flowing into one another as if they had been chiseled from one colossal rock. Even more impressive was the sea of colors that presented itself to Dany. A hundred hues of red, yellow, gold and orange met and melt into the temple walls, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset.

It was like Dany had always imagined the Red Keep, but now she doubted it was a massive as this temple.

Not many people could bee seen as they passed along the main street.

Seeing her children soaring over the sky, the more courageous people came out of their hiding places and cheered for Dany and her companions.

‘Mhysa!” someone called after her. “Mother of Dragons!”

In Meereen these cheers had pleased her, but here in Volantis everything felt different. Seeing the signs of bloodshed everywhere made her recall the campaign in Yunkai. It also reminded her of the time with the Dothraki and her brother’s death.

Sometimes, she still dreamed of him like Viserys, his face scorched like Moqorro’s inky skin.

 _It was necessary_ , she reminded herself and continued to lead her Silver over _the Long Bridge_ , a building she recalled well from the last time she had visited Volantis. The bridge’s gateway was an arch of black stone carved with sphinxes, manticores and dragons, a beautiful piece of Valyrian architecture.

At the Temple, they were received by a large crowd of people, most former slaves, so much Dany could tell by their colorful tattoos, though some hid them behind hoods of dyed-red wool.

Unlike the inhabitants of the city, these people remained silent, each carrying candles or torches. It looked like a swarm of fireflies, but Dany felt no wonder, only discomfort.

The smell of burned flesh was especially pungent in this place.

At the great plaza before the temple they were met by two scores of the Fiery Hand, their crimson cloaks billowing like flames in the last rays of sunlight peeking over the walls.

They flanked the High Priest Benerro like a sea of flames, who offered to lead them deeper into the temple.

Dany hesitated for a moment and turned to look at Jon and Ser Barristan.

Jon’s assuring smile was all she needed.

They were led along a never-ending corridor, its walls made from a shiny black material that glimmered like a sea of stars whenever the torchlight fell upon them.

At last, they reached a large chamber. Its walls were made from the same black stone as the rest of the temple, but the thick pillars holding the ceiling were made of crimson bricks decorated with gilded paintings of swirling flames.

What surprised her even more was that the sealing above was opened to the sky, allowing a marvelous view at the stars and the moon.

There they had placed low tables and cushioned seats for their many followers, but Dany and her companions were led into another side-chamber, where they were received with cups of wine and a meal of roasted puppies dipped in honey, a specialty of the city.

Dany winced at the sight of the crispy delicacy and simply asked for a cup of watered wine.

“You are with child,” Moqorro remarked then. He had been watching her from his seat beside High Priest Benerro.

Dany doubted he had seen her child in the flames. He had spent enough time on her ship to hear this piece of information from the servants. Even Lady Lyanna had deduced it by noticing her habits.

“It is true,” Dany confirmed, her gaze flickering from Moqorro to Benerro. “Does it matter?”

“Your well-being is of great importance to us all, your Grace,” Benerro replied and folded his crimson robes in front of him. “You are Azor Ahai reborn…the flaming sword that shall free the world from darkness.”

Dany was confused by this answer. “I am a woman and I have no flaming sword.”

“So much is true,” Benerro replied. “Even so, the prophecy says that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword and that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.”

“And reading the flames is a difficult practice,” Moqorro added. “.Only fools claim to know everything, like this woman the dwarf spoke about…this woman from Asshai.”

“A woman from Asshai?” Benerro asked, his eyebrows rising to the top of his head. “Could it be the misguided woman that came here before?”

“Aye,” Moqorro confirmed. “The Shadowbinder. She is now serving this Westerosi King and claims that he is R’hllor’s champion.”

“Nonsense,” Benerro grumbled and shifted his attention back to Dany. “Whatever she saw in the flames must have confused her.”

“Does it matter?” Jon asked suddenly and caused everyone to look at him. If he felt discomfort it didn’t show on his face. It was unreadable as ever. “You are convinced that my Aunt is this Azor Ahai, are you not?”

“It does matter!” Benerro hissed angrily. “This woman claims to speak in the name of our god. She is a false witness. It is sin.”

“Jon only meant well,” Dany came to Jon’s rescue and tried to direct the conversation into a different direction. “And I also do not care to hear about this woman. What I want to know is this: Who is Azor Ahai and what exactly did he do?”

“There are many names for him,” Moqorro explained without hesitation. “But we, the servants of the one true god have always called him Azor Ahai. To put it simple…He was a man who put an end to the tyrannical rule of the Bloodstone Emperor.”

“Who is this man you speak of?” Dany asked politely and searched Moqorro’s face. “This is the first time I have heard of this Emperor.”

“That does not surprise me,” Benerro added. “It is a tale that reaches back to the Empire of Dawn. It is a blood tale, but it must be told for you to realize your destiny.”

Dany nodded her head in understanding. “And I shall listen to you. That is why I came here.”

Benerro looked pleased, a ghost of a smile crossing over his lips.

Then, he cleared his throat and began to recount the tale of the Bloodstone Emperor.

“A long time ago, the Empire of Dawn ruled over the known world, but like most empires it eventually started to crumble. The cause for its doom was the quarrel between the Amethyst Empress and her brother, who would later be known as the Bloodstone Emperor. Little is known about him beside his evil deeds. What we know is that he was a powerful sorcerer who dabbled in all kinds of dark magic and that he surrounded himself with equally powerful followers. Some tales say he was able to forgo death.”

“Forgo death?” Jon asked, flexing his hand impatiently. “What does that mean?”

“These tales are old and thus prone to falseness, but they say the Bloodstone Emperor fashioned himself an army of deadman who served him loyally till the end,” Benerro  continued and paused for a brief moment, before continuing with his tale. “But we should start at the beginning. As I said before…it was a quarrel between brother and sister that led to the tragedy that followed afterwards.”

“What happened?” Dany asked.  _Did she try to give her brother a molten crown_?

“Nothing that hasn’t happened before. The Dark Prince thought himself more equipped to rule and murdered his sister in cold blood,” Benerro continued. “And forged a cursed blade and used her blood to work terrible magic, bringing about an age of terror of darkness…the Long Night.”

Jon paled and stopped his flexing movement at once. “The Long Night? But how is that possible…,” he was about to continue, but Benerro interrupted him.

“Let me continue and you shall understand,” Benerro insisted. “And thus the world was cast into eternal darkness and the Bloodstone Emperor went about to enslave the known world. His followers squashed anyone who dared to fight back or question the Emperor’s yearly tributes…a thousand children were to be sacrificed to keep the Emperor’s army from dwindling.”

Dany couldn’t help but to gasp, a feeling of sickness overcoming her.  _A thousand children…what a gruesome price to be paid for power_. “I assume this is when Azor Ahai came into play?”

“Indeed,” Benerro confirmed her suspicions. “Though it is not quite clear from the tales what caused Azor Ahai to take up the sword. Some tales say his son was sacrificed in one of these bloody rituals and other tales describe him as a Prince who wanted to take revenge for his mother, the Amethyst Empress. The only thing we know for sure is that Azor Ahai was a powerful sorcerer who gathered his own followers around him. _The Lions of the Night_ they called themselves, sworn to put an end to the Bloodstone Emperor’s perverted magic, but they were not the only ones who joined Azor Azhai’s cause. The first followers of R’hllor were also among them. They say the First Prophet had a vision of Azor Ahai in his dreams and warned the Bloodstone Emperor of the danger, but blinded by his own pride he had the humble prophet slaughtered. Thus, the prophet’s kinsmen left the Bloodstone Emperor’s services and joined Azor Ahai’s cause, offering their services to him. Years passed and Azor Ahai and fought numerous battles against the Bloodstone Emperor’s servants, who thought himself above this mortal man and hid away in his Black Citadel. Azor Ahai slew beasts of the sea and air and the Emperor’s dark servants fled before his light, but it was never enough to put an end to the darkness. Those born to mortal life faded away like candles in a storm, but the Bloodstone Emperor remained. Realizing that his time was limited, Azor Ahai grew desperate and decided to make one last attempt to forge a tool that would enable him to put an end to the darkness.”

“He forged a magical sword, didn’t he?” Jon asked tensely and started to flex his hand again. “By stabbing it in the heart of his lover. I heard this tale from one a sailor.”

“That is what the tales say,” Benerro confirmed. “But it is not known whether Nissa Nissa was truly his lover. Some say she was his sister and others think she was his mother. Not that it matters. What matters is that he put an end to the Bloodstone Emperor’s reign.”

“And that is how the Long Night ended?” Jon asked. “How is it that all of this repeated itself in Westeros? Or was there only one Long Night? I fear I cannot quite follow.”

“Simple,” Benerro replied. “The Bloodstone Emperor was killed by Azor Ahai, but his evil presence still lingers on in this world. It is still visibly today…seasons last years. The old tales indicate that was not always the case.”

“Impossible,” Jon said. “All of this can be caused by magic?”

“Once the world was filled with magic,” Benerro explained. “It was as common as breathing, but that all changed when the Bloodstone Emperor made ill-use of it. Fear of magic grew and those practicing it were persecuted mercilessly by those that succeeded Azor Ahai. Yi Ti banished all forms of magic and the warlocks and sorcerers had to go elsewhere , but that was not the only consequence. The Empire once forged by magic crumbled apart into warring kingdoms. Many fled across the Narrow Sea…I think your people call them the First Men.”

“Aye,” Jon confirmed in wonder. “I see…that is why they left their homes.”

“Indeed,” Benerro added. “But that is not the end of the tale, for while the Empire of Dawn had disappeared the Dragonlords rose out of its ashes and the First Men started to forge their kingdoms across the Narrow Sea with iron and blood.”

“Aye,” Jon replied. “The Children of the Forest. The First men quarreled with them for a long time, but eventually a common enemy arose, but how…,” Jon trailed off.

“The Others,” Moqorro explained. “And the Great Other.”

“The Great Other,” Benerro continued for Moqorro. “Was a man who came to the eastern lands to seek powerful magic. They say it was him who slew _the Bearer of Truth_ and took hold of the Emperor’s cursed sword, thus becoming his successor. Until this day nobody knows what happened to him…but the prophecy says that he and Azor Ahai will return to fight out their final struggle.”

Dany had shuddered when.

“But I have no flaming sword…and I don’t know anything about this Azor Ahai,” she refused to comply. “I do not think I can help you.”

“We know a similar tale about the Long Night,” Jon interrupted suddenly. “They say the Last Hero and his companions entered into an allegiance with the Children of the Forest to put an end to the terror of the Others. Could this hero also be connected to Azor Ahai?”

Benerro shook his head. “That is unlikely. Azor Ahai was a mortal man who could have never lived that long. Whoever your Last Hero was, he was not Azor Ahai.”

“And the sword?” Ser Barristan asked. “You told us what happened to the Emperor’s sword, but not what happened to Azor Ahai’s flaming sword.”

“Nobody knows,” Benerro replied and lowered his head. “It is another mystery, but I know this. I have seen you in the flames Daenerys Targaryen. You say you have no flaming sword, but what are dragons but fire made flesh? And didn’t you do what Azor Ahai did before you? Cleanse the world of the evil of slavery?”

Dany didn’t know what to say. She wanted nothing to do with this nonsense and saw no similarity between herself and this Azor Ahai.

“I killed common men of flesh and blood, not power-hungry sorcerers.”

Benerro’s lips were a firm line, his brows furrowed. “You cannot show doubt, Princess Daenerys. The appearance of the red comet heralds the return of Azor Ahai and the Great Other. It is known.”

“Nothing is known,” Dany began, ready to rebuke him, but Jon cut her off.

“I saw deadman,” Jon said and lifted his burned hand. “They tried to kill a man I respect and I saved his life by setting them aflame.”

It was the first time Benerro really looked at Jon. “Are you sure?”

“I am sure,” Jon replied firmly and turned to look at Ser Barristan. “But there is more. My father Prince Rhaegar and his predecessors before believed in a prophecy…A Promised Prince that would bring back spring.”

“And wake dragons from stone,” Ser Barristan added. “I think it was this part of the prophecy that compelled King Aegon to hatch dragon eggs.”

“The Promised Prince,” Benarro repeated, his face paler than paper as he stared back at Jon and Ser Barristan. “Is the same name we used for Azor Ahai. Who gave your kin this prophecy?”

“A woodswitch,” Ser Barristan explained. “I do not know the exact details, but she was convincing enough that King Jaehaerys forced his children to be wed as the woodswitch had foretold him that this Promised Prince would be born from his line.”

Benerro chuckled drily. “I cannot speak for this woodswitch, I can only tell you what I know. The Long Night is sure to come.”

Jon nodded his head and smiled strangely. “So, the tales of the Others could be _really_ true.”

Dany didn’t know what to make of his sudden change of mind and swallowed hard. She needed time to think. “I thank you for this enlightening tale, High Priest, but I am exhausted. I shall seek you out on the morrow if it pleases you.”

Benerro didn’t seem pleased, but nodded his head in acknowledgment. “We are honored by your presence, but before you go you should know that someone else wishes to speak with you…the Sealord of Braavos.”

Dany wasn’t surprised. She had seen his ships. “I see. I shall sent for him…,” she began, but Benerro cut her off, a knowing smile curling on her lips.

“He says that he has a gift for you…your kin…Prince Aemon Targaryen.”

…


	79. The Heart of Winter

**Bran**

A never-ending wasteland of snow and ice stretched before him. His steps were light and no sound rang through the frozen air as he walked. It was as if he was flying and not really there, a ghost or perhaps a vision.

Even so, he felt Lord Brynden’s presence in the crow soaring above his head.

“Death!” the bird croaked. “Death!”

 _Lord Brynden is in there_ , Bran knew and studied the bird closer. He had shiny black feathers, but his eyes were unusual. The crow had three of them and the middle one glowed red like a ruby.

 _A third eye_ , Bran knew and recalled the strange dream he had after his fall from the Broken Tower. The crow had visited him in his dreams and had shown him far away lands. Now, he was finally here and walking on his own two feet.

It was not real, but it was better than his wolf dreams.

Together, boy and crow, made their way through a flat landscape enclosed by jagged mountains and trees that stood frozen in time. The trees had no leaves to protect themselves against the icy wind, only icicles that glittered in the dim moonlight.

The darkness of the night seemed almost distant, but the further he walked the weaker the moonlight grew. It felt as if the light was slowly being swallowed by the shadows and Bran had to remind himself to be brave.

 _You are now a man grown_ , he reminded himself as the darkness washed over him. _I am a man grown._

As he passed through the thick shadows the light came back, though it was dimmed as if it was trying reaching him through thick clouds.

Bran’s breath caught in his throat, as he swept his gaze over the plains filled with wonderous buildings of ice and wood. Not even Winterfell could compare to the spiral towers kissing the greyish sky.

The heart of it all was a large weirwood tree, though Bran had noticed this only at the second glance.

The tree’s white bark was paler than usual and his once auburn leaves were frozen and decorated with sharp icicles.

“King!” the crow croaked and suddenly landed upon Bran’s shoulder. “King!”

Bran didn’t know what to make of the crow’s words. King. Where is this King?

And as if someone had heard his question, a shrieking sound shook him out of his reverie and caused him to whirl around.

Then he saw them: hundreds, thousands, no hundred thousand of shadowed shapes rose at once, as if woken by Bran’s mere presence. _They are dead_ , Bran realized at once. Some looked still whole,  but others were nothing but skeletons. Yet, there were not only humans among the dead. There were beasts of all sizes and shapes: wolves with severed heads, giants impaled by numerous spears, birds with tattered feathers and even squirrels with spindle thin bodies that were crawling between Bran’s feet.

A jolt of fear surged through Bran’s body, when he beheld this sea of frosty eyes and their shrieking cries reached his ears. It felt as if they could sense and smell him. Some stretched out their hands, passing through Bran’s form.

 _I am not really here_ , he reminded himself and gathered his courage, though his knees felt like pudding. _I am just air for them._

“King!” the crow croaked as Bran closed his eyes and passed through the wights, the slaves of the Others, towards the weirwood and deeper into the Heart of Winter. “King! King! King!

His heart pounded loudly as he reached a long corridor, overgrown with branches forming and arch over Bran’s head.

Along the walls stood sentries, tall and beautiful beings unlike Bran had ever seen before. Their even-shaped faces looked like masks of ice and their hair was as pale as snow, falling around their long faces like a shroud.

Their armor was even more impressive to behold. It was made of rippling patterns of ice and glimmered in different hues of blue and white, almost like the winter roses growing in the glass house of Winterfell.

Winter roses, like the ones his Aunt’s crown had been made from.

 _Why am I thinking of stupid flowers_ , Bran thought and walked towards the sentries. Unlike the dead men, they didn’t move at all, their spears straight and their shields beautiful and untarnished by time.

The expression on their faces was as inhuman as their strange beauty, but like the dead men their eyes were bright and blue like frost.

 _Whoever or whatever guides them, must have eyes likes like these_ , Bran mused and moved along the corridor after he had satisfied his curiosity.

As he reached the end of the long corridor, he entered a large chamber with an open ceiling, showing nothing but a never-ending grey sky with a gleam of distant moonlight trying to burst through the stormy clouds. From a far it looked like an eye, the clouds whirling around in a wild spiral.

 _The eye of a storm_ , Bran thought. _That fits much better than the Heart of Winter._

Bran came to stand in the middle of the large chamber, its walls rising higher than any tower in Winterfell. Rising steps of ice spiraled around the walls, leading to the top of the tower. Bran didn’t know why, but he felt as if this was where he would find answers to his questions.

Exhaling deeply, he made for the steps and climbed the first one, then another and another…

His steps felt heavy and the howling wind roared around him, whipping his long red hair into his face. He felt no cold, but a deep-seated fear took hold of his heart as he reached the last step.

 _I must see_ , he reminded himself and climbed up the last bit, reaching a chamber that looked like a large cocoon with hundreds of small holes carved into the walls. It looked like a hive and there, inside these smaller cocoons he noticed things, no…people. They lay curled in their cocoons like babes in their mother’s wombs. Some were as small as Bran and others were as tall as a grown man. _I must see the truth._

Suddenly, he heard the crunching sounds of footsteps and turned around. It was one of the sentries, who walked as slow and stiffly as if he had all the time in the world. Yet, when Bran saw what he was carrying in his arms, he froze again.

It was a babe, a frozen babe with mottled grey skin and garbed in tattered robes of pelt. It made no sound. It must be dead, but the Other didn’t seem to care.

Like a loving mother, he cradled the babe and carried it to one of the empty cocoons and placed it inside. Then, he freed his frozen knife and cut his arm open. Inky blood sprinkled on the dead body of the babe, steaming and hissing as it touched the icy ground.

When all was said and done, the Other sealed the cocoon and moved along. He stopped at the last one and patted his spear against the icy walls.

It took a single heartbeat, before they cracked open like an egg, shards of ice drifting in the air like butterflies.

Then, the whole creature emerged, first its arms and legs and then its even-shaped face, framed by its otherworldly white hair. The bright blue eyes were as beautiful and hunting as those of the others, but only when the creature stood tall and bowed before his brother, Bran realized that he had just witnessed the birth of an Other.

Bran turned around, whirling around himself like a dancer as he counted the cocoons. He counted twenty, fifty, hundred…

Feeling sick, he fled down the steps and back to the path he had left.

“There are hundreds of them,” Bran muttered to himself and felt a strange kind of despair taking hold of him, the same kind of despair he had felt after he had realized he was a cripple.

Dark thoughts stirred in his mind. It made him think of his crippled body and how he hated the person who had done this to him.

 _No_ , Bran reminded himself and bit his lips. _I am not like them._ _Their sorrow is not mine._

He exhaled once more and stepped into the next chamber, similar to Lord Brynden’s cave. Thousands of skulls, both small and big, littered the ground before the weirwood tree.

There Bran saw more sentries, attending to a sleeping man seated beneath the weirwood.

His face was similar to that of the Others, but much more beautiful. It looked old and young at once and his long white hair reached nearly to his ankles. He wore the same rippling blue-and-white armor as his brothers and a cloak of frozen feathers  hung limply around his shoulders.

Yet, what aroused Bran’s curiosity was the antlered crown resting atop his head.

Like the rest of this place, there was something dark and sorrowful about this sleeping man.

Bran felt an indominable pull towards the tree and his steps carried him without his participation.

He stretched out his hand, nearly touching the bark of the tree when everything around him exploded in white light…

When Bran woke again, he felt as if he had drowned and the sea had spit him out there beneath Lord Brynden’s weirwood.

Bran forced his eyes open and saw the fat moon smiling down at him. He felt the roots digging into his back and the sweet smell of sap entering his nose.

“Bran,” Meera’s sweet voice rang in his ears and caused him to turn around. He felt her hand on his cheek. “Are you well?”

“I am well,” Bran assured her and squeezed her hand. “I am still here.”

“I am glad,” Meera replied, her face pale as she pressed her cheek against his. Her skin felt so cold, but her hand was warm. “I thought you died.”

Bran nodded his head weakly and tried to recall what had happened. The children had given him a bloody paste that had brought about this powerful vision unlike any other he had experienced before.

“Do not fret, my girl,” Lord Brynden’s cracking voice echoed through the cave. “Brandon Stark is too precious.”

Meera lifted her head in anger and grabbed for her spear.

“You are hurting him!” she snapped angrily. “I can see it.”

“Such is the fate of a greenseer,” Lord Brynden replied while Bran had pulled himself back on his stomach, searching the one red eye of his teacher. “Pain and suffering are the source of wisdom.”

“Was the man in the tree the Great Other?” Bran asked. “Why is he sleeping?”

“That was him,” Lord Brynden confirmed. “And his long slumber is almost at its end.”

Bran nodded his head, but was unhappy with his teacher’s answer. “But _why_ is he sleeping?”

“Why is of no importance to _us_. He will wake…so much is sure and when he does the Long Night will be upon us again, which is why I want you to leave on the morrow.”

“On the morrow?” Bran asked and looked around. He hadn’t even noticed the shadowy figures grouching around the weirwood. So far he had only seen a handful of children, but now there were hundreds of them. “What…What do you want?”

“We want to help you,” Leaf explained and came to stand before them. The child smiled and lowered his head in reverence. Then, he presented something to Meera and Bran. It was a sword, the hilt old and rotten. Yet, when the child unsheathed the blade it looked whole and untouched by time.

Its rippling pattern told Bran what kind of a sword he had before him.

“That’s Valyrian Steel…,” Bran began, mouth falling open as he stretched out his hand to brush his fingers over the cold steel. “How?”

“The sword before you is called Dark Sister.  I want you to take it with you.”

“But…,” Bran protested in confusion. “Why would you give it to me?”

“Because I am dying,” Lord Brynden replied weakly. “And _he_ will come here to find me. By then you and the sword must be gone.”

“He?” Bran asked. “The Great Other will come here? Why?”

Lord Brynden chuckled. “We are old friends, but that is of no importance to you. You know your task, Brandon Stark. Make sure that it is done or all is lost.”

Bran swallowed hard and pulled back his hand.

“Give the sword to Meera or Hodor,” Bran told Leaf. “I have no use for it.”

“The soft giant is sleeping,” Leaf explained and sheathed the blade, offering it hilt-first to Meera. "But we shall wake him from his slumber."

 Meera took the sword after a moment of hesitation.

“Are you really going to bring us home?” she asked, her voice laced with hope.

Leave nodded his head in confirmation. “We are all going _home_.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering...Yes, Bran consumed Jojen paste.


	80. The Sealord

**Jon**

 

“We should invite the Sealord to our ship,” Jon repeated after Dany had stepped out of the bath. “I do not trust his intentions.”

When the High Priest had informed them about Maester Aemon, Jon had expected that she would want to see him at once, but the contrary had happened. Instead Dany had asked Jon to take her back to the ship, where they had broken their fast on sweet plums and whipped cream. It was a strange supper, but it seemed the child inside Dany craved strange dishes.

 _Something bothers her_ , Jon had realized soon, but hadn’t voiced these thoughts openly, as Dany had provided him with plenty of distraction. She had been almost impatient to seek out his bed that night. She hadn’t even taken a bath, before she had pulled down his smallclothes and had tasted him with a generosity that had made him gasp helplessly.

Jon had enjoyed this just as much as he had enjoyed tasting her, but at times he also wondered if it was no inconvenience for her. Yet, he had been proven wrong again, when she had pushed him back unto his back and had mounted him like her _Silver_.

The rest was a blur of pleasure, which left Jon too lazy to leave bed even when the first rays of sunlight were falling through the painted glass.

Dany narrowed her violet gaze and pulled her dress over naked shoulders. Her hair was still wet and her cheeks were flushed from the water. “Are the Braavosi not against slavery? What reason would they have to lie about my Grand-Uncle?

Jon knew many reasons, but one stood out to him the most. Maester Aemon had tried to keep him from breaking his vows…

“Maester Aemon would never leave the Wall,” Jon countered, but Dany’s shaking head silenced him at once.

“Not even for his own kin?” Dany asked and leaned closer to touch his cheek.

Dany made a good point, but that was not enough to convince Jon.

“This Sealord brought the entire Braavosi Fleet here,” Jon argued and brushed her silver hair back over her shoulder. It felt so soft to touch, but now was not the time for ill-suited thoughts. “But I doubt he did it out of pure selflessness. What could he want? Gold? Lands? I suppose he could be here on behalf of the Iron Bank. What if he only came to collect the Iron Throne’s debts? Lord Tyrion mentioned something like that in passing…,” Jon continued to explain, but was silenced by playful slap on his shoulder.

“You think too much,” she chided him and smiled. Then, she walked towards the door and allowed Irri and Jhiqui entrance. Irri helped her quickly into her dress while Jhiqui braided Dany’s hair with practiced movements. All the while they were babbling to each other in the Dothraki tongue. _The woman’s tongue_ , Jorah liked to call it, because only the women used it among each other, often to share their secrets from prying ears. By now, Jon understood bits and pieces and knew that it were mostly unimportant things like what color or how tight Jhiqui was supposed to braid Dany’s hair.

Thus, Jon excused himself to put on fresh clothing: a simple dark tunic made of wool and dark pants brushed into his old leather boots.

By the time Jon returned, Irri had bound the silver bells into Dany’s hair and Ser Barristan had joined them. He wore his usual armor, polished like a looking glass and his white cloak swept over his right shoulder.

“Shall we go?” Jon asked Dany. The prospect of meeting Maester Aemon scared him and for a moment he wondered whether it would be wise to ask his mother to accompany them, but then he decided against it. To see Jon and Dany, would be exciting enough for an old man like him.

Dany exhaled deeply nodded her head. “Let’s go.”

The sun was rising in the east when they set over to the Sealord’s galley, a mighty ship with golden banners and laughing faces. The crewmen helping them on board looked just as impressive. Most colorful tunics, decorated with golden thread and high silver-buckled boots. Their twirling mustaches and strange heads were also strange to look at. It filled Jon with the longing to visit Braavos, but he knew there was no time for that.

It was the first sailor who led them to the Sealord’s solar, which looked as precious as the rest of the ship. There they found a handsome man seated in a high wooden seat, his gilded doublet falling all the way down to his ankles and was fastened with a crimson sash. Compared to the other sailors the buckles of his high boots were made of pure gold.

The strange man watching them through a silken curtain looked almost like a beggar compared to the Sealord. He was short and squat with enormous hands, a thick chest and a hard ale-belly.

His eyes were filled with curiosity, but the said nothing.

“Welcome!” the Sealord exclaimed. “Welcome to my humble ship!”

Dany feigned a smile and lowered her head in greeting, her bells ringing softly.

“I am pleased to meet you, your Lordship,” Dany replied politely and gestured at Jon and Ser Barristan. “May I introduce my nephew Prince Aemon Targaryen and my Ser Barristan Selmy. You might have heard of him.”

The Sealord’s smile cut have cleaved steel.

“Two Aemon’s then!” he declared enthusiastically, but Jon read a hint of apprehension in his demeanor. _He didn’t expect me_ , Jon guessed. “What a pleasant surprise! But correct me if I am wrong, but wasn’t your nephew called Prince Aegon and didn’t he perish during the sack of King’s Landing?”

“It is a bit complicated,” Jon added and wet his lips. “You see…I am the son of Prince Rhaegar and his second wife, Lady Lyanna Stark. My birth was long hidden from me.”

The Sealord neither smiled nor frowned. He pondered his words for a moment and stroked his beard.

“Well, I shan’t question your birth,” he said. “I asked you here for other reasons.”

“I know so much,” Dany replied and sat down at the cushioned chair offered to her by one of the page boys. “The High Priest told me you brought me a gift.”

“Prince Aemon Targaryen,” the Sealord added and waved his hand at the servants lined up against the wall. One brought a cup and was about to pour wine into it, but Dany refused. Next came another boy, offering them a piece of cake or whatever that was. Jon took a bite and winced when he noticed that it was raw fish with strange seagrass wrapped around it. He swallowed it quickly and poured it down with a sip from his cup.

“That is not the only reason,” Tormo Fregar explained and spread his arms wide. “I also wish to speak about the future of Slaver’s Bay and Volantis. The freedmen of this city do not trust me, but with your support I could change the situation for all our benefit.”

“ _Your_ benefit you mean?” Jon asked. “What a surprise…What do you want, your Lordship? Rule over Slaver’s Bay and Volantis?”

The Sealord smiled cryptically and glimpsed at Dany. “Do you know the history of Braavos, your Grace?”

“I have lived in Braavos in my youth,” Dany replied. “And I am well aware of its dislike for the practice of slavery. I assume you want to enter into an allegiance?”

The Sealord nodded his head in confirmation. “An allegiance…for both our benefit.”

“What benefit would my people have from such an allegiance?” Dany asked in her queenly voice.

The Sealord laughed in amusement. “I knew that I would like you, your Grace. Well, yes, there would be benefits for your people. To put it bluntly…Slaver’s Bay has depended on the trade of slaves, but now that this perverted practice has been forbidden its people must look for a different source of income. To build something new you will need coin. I could help with this.”

“We have undertaken efforts to cultivate lands,” Dany explained. “But it will take years before these lands will be able to yield enough to satisfy the needs of their owners. Help would be appreciated and coin as well…Well, I hope this matter will become easier once I have taken the Iron Throne. I hope to negotiate with the Iron Bank.”

“Then you are lucky,” The Sealord said and twirled his beard. “Because I have been sent here on behalf of the Iron Bank, but let us not stray too far from the topic at hand.... Slaver’s Bay. Tell me, who rules these cities now?”

“Astapor has been reduced to ashes,” Jon explained and washed away his memory with Braavosi wine. “Meereen and Yunkai are being ruled by a council made up of freedmen and former masters, but the real power is with the Unsullied and the two men we tasked the command the troops…A certain Ben Plumm and Daario Naharis.”

The Sealord’s smile had perished at once. “Former masters?”

“Puppet rulers of my choice,” Dany corrected him. “What did you expect? That I butchered all of them? I do not spill blood unnecessarily. I am not naïve either. I am well aware that the other cities might wage another war against my people, which makes it even more important for me to take the throne as soon as possible and to win over the Iron Bank.”

The Sealord lifted his hands in defense. “Do not fret, your Grace. I have am not judging you for your choices, but you must understand…Slavery is a cursed practice in Braavos.”

“We are well aware,” Jon added impatiently and exchanged a quick glance with Ser Barristan. “And now tell us your price?”

The Sealord laughed and met Jon’s gaze directly. “Indeed. Everything comes at a price, doesn’t it?”

Dany joined her voice to Jon’s. “Then, name it, because I am eager to see my kin or was that just your way to lure us here?”

The Sealord’s smile was unreadable.

“All I want is Volantis and a favorable trade agreement between the former Slaver’s Cities and Braavos. That is my price.”

It was less than Jon had expected, but knowing these Braavosi merchants there could be some complicated clause hidden in this agreement. The paymaster he had served had always told Jon that the Braavosi have the best lawyers.

However, the greatest problem was Volantis. Jon doubted these freedmen nor the Red Priests would accept the rulership of the Braavosi.

Dany’s frown told him that she was thinking the same.

“The freedmen of his city won’t like that.”

“So much is true,” the Sealord replied and gave her a knowing smile. “But rumor tells me you are Azor Ahai reborn! I am sure you can sway their minds.”

Jon gritted his teeth and Dany fisted the skirt beneath her swollen belly. “Can I have some time to consider this matter?”

The Sealord smiled and clapped his hands together. “You may have all the time in the world, though as you rightly said…You want to sail for Westeros as soon as possible, isn’t that so?”

“Not Westeros…Pentos,” Jon corrected him. “There is a debt that needs to be repaid.”

“Pentos then,” the Sealord corrected himself and waved his hand at the old man hidden behind the silken curtains. “And now to your gift…Archmaester Marwyn will bring you to Prince Aemon.”

Dany froze and nearly dropped her goblet to the ground, but Jon had managed to catch it in time.

“Are you perhaps Marwyn the Mage?” she asked cryptically, her hand brushing over her swollen belly.

She looked afraid.

The man lowered his head in reverence and didn’t look the least bit frightening.

“I am Marwyn the Mage,” he confirmed. “And is a pleasure to meet you, your Grace. Maester Aemon is an old friend of mine and even more eager to see you. May I ask how you know my name?”

Dany’s smiled stiffly. “Through an old friend of yours. Well, I want to see my Grand-Uncle. Please show me the way.”

The man nodded his head.

“Please come along, your Grace.”

…


	81. Maester Aemon

Dany felt as if her heart wanted to jump out of her chest as she followed after  this Archmaester Marwyn. That he had been Mirri’s teacher should make her wary of him, but at the moment her mind was occupied with other thoughts than the witch that had murdered her babe Rhaego.

Besides, Jon and Aegon, she had never expected to meet another member of her family, especially not someone so old as her Grand-Uncle Aemon. And while Jon had told her bits and pieces about him, she couldn’t help but to feel afraid.

 _You are the blood of the dragon_ , she reminded herself, but stopped in front of the door. Her legs felt suddenly weak like pudding.

“Is something amiss?” Marwyn asked after he had noticed her predicament.

Jon was also staring at her and leaned over to touch her shoulder.

“Won’t his heart go out when he sees me?”

Marwyn chuckled lightly.

“That won’t be a problem, your Grace. Aemon is blind.”

“I doubt that is what Daenerys meant,” Jon added in displeasure. “She is referring to his age…How is Maester Aemon?”

“The travel was exhausting for him,” Marwyn replied bluntly and puled the door open. “But he is determined to meet you.”

His answer made her heart clench.

Jon smiled at her. “Maester Aemon survived the Wall. A bit of excitement won’t kill him, Dany.”

Dany exhaled deeply.

“Then, let’s go.”

Jon laughed.

“You are not going into battle, Dany,” Jon whispered to her. “There is no reason to be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” she whispered and followed after Marwyn, who held the door open for them.

Marwyn announced them, while Dany was trying to get a hold of her labored breathing.

“I bring your promised guests, old friend,” Marwyn confirmed to the old man, wrapped up in heaps of furs. To Dany he looked more like a fragile child than a very old man.

Dany wanted to speak, but she was barely able to breathe. Thus, Jon spoke for her.

“Maester Aemon,” he said and drew closer. “Do you remember me?”

Surprise washed over the old man’s face. Then, he chuckled lightly. It sounded like the sound of bells.

“I do, my boy,” he said and graced Jon Snow with a toothless smile, stretching out his claw-like hand. “I should have know that I would find you here, but it is a pleasant surprise indeed.”

Relief was palpable on Jon’s face as he knelt down and squeezed the old man’s hand. “You are not angry?”

The old man laughed and tightened his grip on Jon’s hand.

“How could I be angry with my own kin?”

Jon gasped in surprise, but didn’t let go of the old man’s hand.

“You are aware of our relations?” he asked in disbelief, his dark eyebrows rising to the top of his head. “Who told you?”

“Lord Stark did,” the old man. “It was him who sent me, Samwell Tarly, Pyp and Grenn to Braavos.”

Jon had mentioned a boy named Sam, but. Of Pyp and Grenn she hadn’t heard before, but by the way Maester Aemon had spoken of them they must be friendly-relations.

“Sam?” Jon asked and laughed in disbelief. “Truly? Where is he then? And why would my Lord Stark sent Pyp and Grenn to Braavos?”

“I sent them to the Citadel,” Aemon explained. “I thought Samwell might be in need of protection.”

Jon chuckled and nodded his head in agreement. “Sam needs protection. A good idea.”

“And you Lord Stark?” Aemon asked. “You are angry with him, aren’t you?”

Jon tensed and clenched his teeth.

“I rather not talk about him now…,” Jon began and lifted his head to look at Dany, who didn’t know whether she wanted to join his side or flee out of the room.

“I came a long way…,” Dany said in a strained voice, her tongue in knots. “I…”

The Maester smiled sadly. “Come closer, child. I am an old man…I can’t hear you properly.”

Dany swallowed hard and drew closer, kneeling down beside Jon.

Again, her words failed her.

Jon seemed to see her predicament and took her hand, to placed it atop the old man’s hand.

Dany squeezed lightly and gathered her strength.

“You have soft hands, child,” was all Maester Aemon said, his unseeing eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “My sister had similar hands.”

Dany had to hold back a sob and involuntarily grabbed for the bedding beside her.

“You had sisters?”

“Two of them,” the old man replied, his voice raw with emotion. “You sound a bit like the youngest.”

“What was her name?” Dany managed to ask, her body trembling from head to toe.

“Rhae,” he replied. “Sounds a bit like the name of your brother, doesn’t it?”

“Both are dead,” Dany added for a lack of words. “We are all that is left.”

“Don’t forget Lord Snow…,” the Maester Aemon added and grinned. He had no teeth, but his smile was bright.

“Can I touch your face?” Maester Aemon asked shyly after a moment of silence had passed between them.

Dany was confused by his question, but then she realized again that he was blind.

_Stupid girl!_

“Of course,” she replied quickly and bit her lips, the pain making it easy to forget about the urge to cry.

She leaned closer.

She had hard time keeping still as the old man’s hands traced over her face. It felt as if he was tracing an invisible line, from her brow, all the way down to her chin.

His grin only intensified as he dropped his hand back unto the bedding.

“You have much more of my mother,” the old man remarked quietly. “You have her nose.”

Dany nodded her head, droplets of tears falling unto her gown.

“I see.”

“Why did you come here?” Jon asked almost gently. “Just to see us?”

Maester Aemon smiled sadly. “I wish it were so, my boy. No, the approaching Wilding army was the reason Lord Eddard sent us away…he did it to protect us.”

Jon tensed, his face changing back to its usually unreadable expression.

He started to flex his hand, a sign of distress.

“So, the Wall has fallen? What about Robb? He wouldn’t forget his duty…,” he ranted, but Maester Aemon’s pull on his arm silenced him at once.

“Your Uncle informed your brother, but the Ironborn have sacked Winterfell…I do not know if he made it in time.”

Dany didn’t know what to make of this. The only Ironborn man she knew was this Victarion Greyjoy, who had stolen her dragon.

She didn’t even have to hear Jon’s anguished voice, to know that this was a bad.

“They sacked it? How?

“They were betrayed by a certain Theon Greyjoy…,” Maester Aemon began, but Jon’s angry shout interrupted him.

“Curse that cunt! How dare he!”

Dany was confused and touched his arm, searching his face.

He pulled himself free and paced to the other side of the room. Then he froze, before whirling around and rushing back to Dany.

“What happened to my family?”

Maester Aemon’s distraught look was telling.

“They say Brandon and Rickon Stark were…,” he wasn’t even allowed to finish, before Jon slammed his fist straight into the wall.

Dany winced and quickly rose to her feet. She tried to get hold of Jon’s arm, but it was no use. Jon slammed his fist back in the wall, like an angry bull attacking a red cloth.

“I am going to kill him!” he snarled. “Theon Greyjoy and his entire kin! I shall kill them all!”

As he was about to slam his fist once more into the Wall, Dany grabbed his arm once more and raised her voice.

“Stop this nonsense! You are hurting yourself!”

This finally work, for he stopped halfway and gave her a stunned look.

“I understand your pain, my boy,” Maester Aemon said. “But to lose yourself to your anger is no good way to handle this matter. You must keep a clear head if you want to home.”

Jon nodded his head and sat back down, his dark hair in disarray.

Dany smoothed it out carefully and shifted her attention back to Maester Aemon.

“There is so much we must tell you, Maester. I don’t even know where to begin.”

 “And I don’t have much time left,” he said. “But there is one thing I want to know…Did you really wake dragons from stone, child?”

Dany nodded her head. “Aye, I have dragons…It makes me sad that you can’t see them.”

Maester Aemon shook his head. “Knowing that Egg’s dream came true is enough for me.”

Jon looked as confused as Dany. Yet, she was just relieved to see that he had calmed a little.

“Who is that?” she asked curiously.

“My brother…Aegon the Unlikely.”

“What a silly name…” she trailed of.

“A fitting one,” Maester Aemon defended his choice. “Well, as you said…there is much we need to talk about…I neglected to tell you…there is another reason your Uncle sent me here. Lord Commander Mormont perished beyond the Wall and many of our brothers with him.”

“The Great Ranging,” Jon said, his voice laced with anger, but much calmer than before. It seemed the talk about the Lord Commander had made him forget about his brothers. “What happened?”

“They were attacked by deadman lead by creatures of legend,” Aemon replied. “Do you remember the man that attacked the Lord Commander?”

Jon froze and lifted his scarred hand.

“The Lord Commander was attacked again?”

“It seems so,” Aemon confirmed. “At least that is what Samwell and several other brothers told us. I doubt they would lie about something like that.”

“Sam wouldn’t lie,” Jon agreed. “Gods, be good. Do you think they are connected to the Wildlings?”

“No,” Aemon replied. “I don’t think so. I think the Wildlings are fleeing from the same enemy.”

Dany had tried her best to follow the conversation and recalled the things Moqorro had told her.

“Could they be tied to these Others, Jon?”

Jon nodded his head, his dark hair spilling back into his pale face.

“It must be so. It is the only possible explanation.”

“And that is why you must go home, my boy. They will have need of your help.”

“We want that,” Dany explained and touched his hand once more. “But there is another problem…”

Maester Aemon wrinkled his brows in confusion.

“What problem do you speak of?”

“There is this boy…he claims to be Aegon Targaryen…my brother’s trueborn heir. As of now he must be in Westeros.”

“And could this be true?” Aemon asked in utter disbelief. “Could Prince Rhaegar’s son have survived?”

Dany didn’t know what to say and remained close to the truth.

“I am not sure.”

Maester Aemon was not satisfied with this answer.

“What does that mean, child? Is there any evidence for it? I assume you have met this boy?”

“I have,” Dany confirmed. “Well, there is this man…Magister Illyrio Mopatis who hosted my brother and me for a whole year.  He also fed my brother all kinds of lies about how he is going to help him to his crown and convinced him to marry me off to some Dothraki warlord. Strangely, he also gave me my eggs. I really don’t know what to make of it…Well, he never mentioned a word about this boy to us and allowed my brother and me to run blindly into the Dothraki Sea…I do not see why I should trust a boy who was hiding away while I and my brother were living like beggars.”

Maester Aemon had listened in silence and his brows had long descended, forming a firm line.

“I assume this boy wanted to wed you?”

Dany nodded her head in confirmation. “He did…he needs my support. So much is clear.”

“But you don’t want to marry him?” the Maester Aemon asked. There was no judgement.

“No,” Dany replied. “I was forced to wed before…Not again. Especially, not someone who abused my trust. I entered negotiations with him, but then he fled the city and tried to steal one of my dragons. I cannot trust him nor do I think he will ever accept Jon…his hatred for Jon’s mother is too great.”

“These are grievous news,” Maester Aemon concluded and coughed. “And I understand your pain, dear child, but waging another Dance of Dragons won’t do any good. There has to be a different way…Ah, I think I have an idea, but I am not sure if you will agree to it.”

“I do not wish to kill him,” Dany assured Maester Aemon. “Neither wants Jon. I cannot be sure that he isn’t my nephew, but I doubt he is going to allow me to live peacefully in Westeros should he be able to take the crown.”

“So, it is Jon Snow you want to marry, isn’t that so?” Maester Aemon asked to her utter surprise.

“How do you know?”

Maester Aemon chuckled lightly.

“I am blind, but I hear more than the best eyes can see. Well, back to my proposal…Listen and make your own decision.”

“What suggestion to you have, Maester Aemon?” Jon asked.

“A Great Council,” Aemon said. “Call for a Great Council. That way Prince Aegon cannot call you a usurper, for you are leaving the succession to the high lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, the success of such an endeavor depends on this boy’s victory against King Stannis or the newly-declared King of the Rock.”

Dany couldn’t believe her ears.

“King of the Rock? Who is that?”

“They rumors say that Jaime Lannister wed Margaery Tyrell and was made King of the Reach and Westerlands.”

Angered stirred inside her gut.

“So, the Tyrells are traitors too?”

“Not traitors, sweet child,” Aemon replied softly. “But an ambitious lot…like most lords. Well, your dragons should help to convince them otherwise.”

Dany believed to know  what he was trying to say, but it was Jon who gave voice to her thoughts.

“Aegon the Conqueror had dragons. It will help to cement our claim. Aegon won’t have any argument against that, besides his supposed blood claim. And with the Tyrells sided with the Lannisters it is unlikely that he will receive the support he craves. Dorne won’t be enough.”

“So much is true,” Dany agreed and searched his face. “So, you think the Tyrells might change sides for us?”

Jon gave her a doubtful look.

“That depends. Nothing is sure…We will only know when we arrive in Westeros.”

“I won’t be there to help you with this, for I fear my time is coming to an end, but I need to say this,” Maester Aemon added. “There is no time to waste on squabbles for the throne…,” he continued and coughed.

Dany didn’t like the sound of that. “But what if he is a Pretender?”

“If these Others come for us it won’t matter if this boy is a Pretender or not,” Maester Aemon replied in a grievous tone. “You must prepare for the real war, child.”

Dany bit her lips and stared silently at Jon, who spoke for her again.

“We shall see,” Jon said honestly. “But for now we must come to an agreement with the Sealord or we can’t leave Volantis.”

Dany leaned closer and squeezed her Grand-Uncle’s hand.

“We must, but first you must come to my ship…there are others you must meet,” she announced and pressed a kiss on his cheek. Then, she lifted her head and looked at Marwyn.

“You are welcome as well, Archmaester. There are things we must talk about.”

The elderly man lowered his head in reverence.

“It would be my pleasure.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone cares for recommendations...but the White Queen ...I think it is an adaption by Phillipa Gregory's novels, is actually enjoyable...which surprised me, because I am no fan of her books. I am not very pro York and she is a Richard wanker who thinks he could do no wrong.... The only thing I dislike his how they turned Margrete Beaufort into a religious nutjob and Elisabeth of York into a whore. Without Margrete Henry Tudor would have never set the English Throne...she was a fucking badass single mom. And Elisabeth of York...I doubt that she was in love with Richard, because there were rumours circulating that linkedh im to the disappreance of her brothers...Would you fall in love with a guy who killed your little brothers? I think not.


	82. A Godless Man

**Aeron**

The darkness felt suffocating. Even so, he was still alive and breathing.

His brother’s mutes had taken his robes and shoes and had exchanged them with clinking chains. The salty water washed over his legs whenever the tide returned and had left its mark on him. His feet had grown soft and puffy, two shapeless things that pained him day and night.

He had also forgotten how he had ended up here, in this dark dungeon.

At times, the rats would wake him from his weak slumber. He had tried to drive them away with curses and kicks, but had been no use. Much worse were the fleas. The constant itching was driving him and.

He wanted to scratch himself so badly, but the chains were too short and biting deeper into his skin whenever he tried to move.

The only light he had seen so far had come from the lanterns the sparse visitors had brought with them.

It was usually the same sour-faced fellow who brought his meals. More than often, it was stinking fish, but his swollen belly was always aching for more…

That night, his brother Euron came himself, a flickering latern in hand.

Smiling wickedly, he poured himself a cup of wine.

“Why am I here?” Aeron asked. He sounded like some tortured animal and his throat throbbed painfully. “Where are we sailing?”

Euron laughed. “We are sailing south…to conquer, to plunder, to find the dragons I have promised.”

Aeron’s head swam as he leaned forward.  “I don’t belong in the south…I belong to the Iron Islands.”

“I am your King and I want you here.”

“How can I be of use to you?” Aeron asked through clenched teeth. “And why take me away from home?”

“Because you would be a bother for Erik Ironmaker,” Euron explained. “The Iron Islands are now in his hands and his loyalty I sealed with the hand of my dear niece…Well, that is if she ever returns from her adventures in the North.”

Aeron tried to hide his disgust.

“Release me!” he demanded. “The gods command it!”

Euron was very amused, but that was no surprise to Aeron. His brother had no respect for anything, let alone the gods.

“Drink with me,” Euron offered lightly once he had stopped laughing and grabbed Aeron’s hair.

He pulled his head backwards and forced the cup to Aeron’s lips. What he tasted was not wine. There were a thousand different tastes: Bitter, sour and then sweet and all at once.

Aeron gagged and wanted to spit it all out, but his brother held him tight and forced the rest of the liquid down his throat.

“You will drink it all,” his brother commanded calmly as ever. “It’s wine from my loyal warlocks, much sweeter than the sea water you like so much, and filled with more truth than your gods could ever give you.”

“Curse you!” Aeron spat and tried to fight back, but it was no use. His arms were chained and his skin burnt at every move. “Curse your rotten soul!”

Euron howled with laughter. “If I had the tongue of every man who dared to curse me, I could garb myself in a new cloak.”

Aeron spat at him once more, but Euron remained impassive as ever. He brushed away the spittle as if it meant nothing to him and grinned wickedly.

“Your god will come for you tonight, dear brother. Wait and see.”

Thus, Euron was swallowed by the shadows, leaving Aeron rotting in the darkness.

Shadows whirled before his eyes, dancing, singing and bending like trees in the wind. Suddenly, he found himself beneath the sea, mermaids smiling sweetly at him. Men and boys he had known in life greeted him there, lifting their rotten hands.

“Urri!” he pleaded when he saw his brother Urri. He was just a boy and not a day older than the day he had left this world.

“Do you know what lurks below the sea, brother?” Urri asked him.

“The Drowned God,” Aeron whispered. “And the watery halls. Have you come to welcome me, brother?”

Urri shook his head and smiled sadly.

“No watery halls you will find here…only worms…only shadows…,” the boy said, his grin transforming into an ugly grimace. Euron was showing his smiling eye to the world. It was red and bloody, dark and terrible to behold.

Clad in blackened steel, he sat atop a heap of corpses while black-robed priests danced beneath his feat. Their tongues were blue, oh so very blue.

They danced and dance, their singing voices bringing forth a terrible darkness that left Aeron shaking like a little babe. It felt as if he was being touched by an icy hand that was trying to strangle him.

“The bleeding star promises the end,” Euron whispered. “These are the last days, when the world shall be broken and remade,” he continued and lifted his great horn, bringing forth a sound that left Aeron’s ears bleeding. Dragons and blue-eyed creatures came at his command and knelt before him, kissing his feet.

“Kneel, brother!” Euron commanded and laughed at the same time. “I am your King and God! Worship me and I shall raise you up!”

Aeron shook his head, his tangled hair falling into his face, concealing his view.

“A godless man like you will never sit the Seastone Chair!” he cursed back.

“Why would I care for the Seastone Chair?” Euron asked then, his laughter bright and cruel. “Look again, dear brother…Look again…,” his voice echoed in his ears, prodding him to lift his head.

Aeron had no other choice but to look.

Suddenly, the heap of bones was gone. His brother was now seated on a barbed chair of twisting metal, dripping with blood. Impaled on the swords were all kinds of gods. There was the Maiden, the Warrior, the Stranger, all of the Seven Gods. There were other gods as well: the Lord of Light, the butterfly god of Naath and the Drowned God, all of them festering and dying like rotten corpses bared to the sun.

He closed his eyes again, trying to banish away the terrors playing out before his eyes, but it was no use.

“Look,” Euron’s whispering voice beckoned him. ”Look.”

When Aeron opened his eyes again, he saw a castle of white marble, covered in thorns and golden roses. Rotten corpses with burning blue eyes were scaling the walls while a silver dragon was turning the castle into ash…

When Aeron woke, he was shaking and screaming, warm piss running down his legs.

As he looked around he found only darkness.

 _It was only a dream_ , he reminded himself.  _Born from my brother’s poisonous wine._

His head throbbed painfully and his memories returned to him only slowly.

The last thing he recalled was the Kingsmoot. As the captains had carried Euron on their shoulders, he had tried to speak to his brother Victarion, but his brother had insisted that the Drowned God had raised Euron to be their King.

In that moment, he had sworn to go to every island to spread the truth about his godless brother.

With a hopeful heart he had gone to seek solace in the sea.

There, his god had come to him, beckoning him again to reveal the truth to his people.

 _The Seastone Chair does belong to Victarion_ , he mumbled helplessly. He shook his head.  _No, not Victarion. They refused him._

 _And not Asha_ , he added forcefully, through had always loved her best of all of Balon’s children. She had been blessed with a strong will and a King’s wisdom, but the gods had cursed her with a woman’s body.

 _And not Theon_. The Greenlanders corrupted him beyond repair.

Not long after, he had emerged from the black waters, filled with resolve and hope, but there they had snatched him away. His brother’s mutes had grabbed him and one of them had slashed something hard against his head that had rendered him unconsciousness.

When he forced his eyes open the darkness greeted him again. By now, it had become as familiar as a lover’s touch.

These blurred thoughts were a result of his fevers.

Fevers, that came and went like the tide, testing his will and faith.

One day, a girl appeared to bring him food. She was young and pretty and dressed in finery.

“Girl,” he told her weakly, barely able to stand. “I command you to set me free.”

“I can’t,” she replied softly. “But I have food for you. Porridge and honey.”

Then, She sat down beside him and fed him with a wooden spoon.

“What is this place?” he asked her. He was confused and had lost all sense for time.

“My father’s castle on Oakenshield,” she told him and continued to feed him.

 _The Shield Islands_ , Aeron knew at once,  _a thousand leagues away from home._

“And who are you, child?”

“Falia Flowers,” the girl chirped. “Lord Hewett’s natural daughter. I am to be King Euron’s salt wife and soon-to-be your kin.”

“Girl,” Aeron said without hesitation. “Run…He will hurt you. He will kill you.”

She giggled. “Silly man, I am his love and he gives me gifts, oh so many gifts. Silks and furs and jewels. All so very beautiful.”

“My brother cares not for such things, girl,” Aeron warned. “Do not be fooled by him.”

“Why else would he give me such a fine gift?” the girl asked and smiled in disbelief.

“And I am going to give him many sons…So many sons,” she said in a sing-song voice and placed her hand on her swollen belly.

“He has sons,” Aeron croaked, the chains clinking as he tried to move forward.

“Baseborn boys and mongrels, Euron calls them,” the girl countered, blinded her silly infatuation. “My sons shall come before them…he promised me.”

Aeron’s heart ached for the foolish girl.

“You must help me. Send a massage to my brother Victarion. Do you know him?”

“I know him,” the girl confirmed. “But he is gone.”

“Gone?” Aeron asked, shaking from head to toe. Desperation washed over him like a storm over a ship. “Gone where?”

“East,” the girl replied. “He went to find the Dragon Queen and to bring her to Westeros. I am to be his salt wife and she is going to be his rock wife. He says that the two of us shall be as close as sisters.”

Aeron had long stopped listening to her prattling voice.

Victarion was gone and his faith was all that was left to him now.

Again, the tide came, but no deliverance from his suffering.

A few days later, as the ship was shuddering under the throes of a storm, his brother returned.

“Still praying, brother?” he asked mockingly. “Can’t you see? Your god has forsaken you!”

Aeron clenched his teeth. He wouldn’t give in. His pride and faith was all that was left.

“You are wrong, godless man.”

“It was you who instructed me how to pray,” Euron snickered and leaned closer. “Did you forget? Sometimes, I would visit your chamber at night when I had too much to drink. Every time, you were praying to leave you be,” he continued in a whispery voice and pressed a dagger to his throat.

“Pray and I shall end your torment.”

Aeron spat at him. “You wouldn’t dare…I am your brother…your  _blood_. No man is more accursed than a _kinslayer_.”

“I have killed three brothers,” Euron countered and bared his teeth. “Yet, here I am.”

Aeron trembled. “Three?”

“Aye,” his brother confirmed softly. “Have you forgotten our sweet half-brothers? There was little Robin. Do you recall his big and soft head? All he could do was mewl and shit. He was my second, but my first was Harlon. All I had to do was close his nose…the Greyscale had turned his mouth to stone. He couldn’t even cry for help as he died. The third was Balon, but I am sure you knew that.”

The dagger bit deeper into his skin and Aeron felt warm blood trickling down his chest.

“I killed three brothers and nothing happened to me,” Euron teased. “Why then would the Drowned God harm me for killing a _mere_ priest?”

There was only silence as Euron pulled away and sheathed his dagger where it belonged.

“Ah, no,” Euron said then and chuckled, like a child that was infatuated with its own thoughts. “I shan’t kill you now, dear brother.”

That night Aeron prayed for his brother’s death, but the gods didn’t listen.

Soon after, other men joined his prison of darkness. Three men wore the robes of Septons and one was a self-declared priest of the God of Light. The last was not even human anymore. His hands had been reduced to blackened stumps and his face was charred, his eyes blind and pale like milk.  He died within hours, but his body was left festering for days.

Last came two warlocks of the east, with flesh as white as snow and starved to the skin.  One had lost his legs and Euron’s mutes bound him to the ceiling.

He whipped back and forth, like a ship lost in a storm.

“Pree!” he cried out every time. “Pree!”

At times, when his mind cleared, Aeron wondered why his brother was collecting priests, but more often than that he fell back into a pit of despair.

In such moments, he gave himself up to fevered praying. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

The next time, his brother came to him, his lips were so blue they appeared black.

Aeron tried to ignore his presence, but Euron grabbed his head and forced him to look at him.

“All gods are lies, brother,” he insisted, trying to fill Aeron’s head with falsehoods. “You shall see that soon. The Drowned God has no power. I have power and I shall demonstrate it for all the world to see.”

“The Drowned God is your god as well,” Aeron reminded him, trying to lead him back to the right path. “And you will pay for your sins.”

Euron shook his head and let go of him.

“I shall not kill you, brother. I need someone to share my triumphs with. Victory is all too sweeter with a loved one beside me.”

“Your victories are hollow,” Aeron contradicted him. “You can’t even hold the islands you conquered and you know it.”

“Why would I care to hold them?” Euron snorted. “I gave the Shield Island to my lords. Now it will be up to them to hold them, but the glory of taking them will reside with me forever.”

Euron leaned closer, the sweet smell of his black wine clinging to his breath.

“Our longships are now raiding up the Mander, the Arbor and the Redwyne Straits. The Old Way, dear brother, the Old Way.”

It was utter madness that had taken hold of Euron’s mind. Utter madness.

“Release me!” Aeron demanded again. “I ask you one last time!”

Euron smiled cruelly and forced him to drink again.

The vile liquid was all too sweet on his lips and made him want to gag.

The dreams that followed were even worse.

He saw hundreds of ships adrift and burning on a crimson sea. He saw a sky so black, no stars nor the moon could be seen. Shadows touched him, forcing him to behold a city with a gleaming tower, kissing the blackened sky. A beast with silver wings pierced the sky with a mighty roar…but suddenly he saw his brother Victarion before him, his face purple and red like a nasty bruise. A dead man’s face, so much Aeron could tell. Blue eyes like frost stared back at him, pleading for help…

He was woken by Euron himself. He had brought his mutes and was holding a ring of keys in one hand and a latern in the other.

“Bring them,” Euron commanded then. “Bring him.”

Aeron struggled, but his strength was not there.

Even after his chains had been removed, he felt no relief, for when he tried to take a step his legs folded beneath him.

When they finally had pulled him up the stairs, the warmth of the sunlight kissed his face and tears rolled down his cheeks.

Hope filled his heart and he demanded to be brought to the water, but the mutes were his brother’s creatures and cared nothing for his commands.

They dragged him down a gallery and into a bleak stone hall where a dozen of bodies were hanging from the rafters and men were enjoying their wine beneath rotting corpses.

Left-Hand Lucas sat in the place of honor. Beside him was Red Oarsman and many more men familiar to Aeron: Jon Myre, Stonehand and Rogin Salt-Beard.

“Who are the dead men?” Aeron asked, his voice strained and distant to his ears.

“The Lord of Oakenshield and his kin,” Torwold Browntooth explained and a godless man like his brother.

“Have your gods been good to you, priest?” asked Left-Hand Lucas. “The King has fed your Drowned God well. We have given thousands to the sea and he has granted us a victory!”

“Count yourself blessed,” added Stonehand. “The Redwyne Fleet is creeping towards us. Another victory awaits us.”

Aeron shuddered as he was dragged back on deck.

There, as he looked around, he found a dozen of longships. Familiar banners fluttered at their masts. There was the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, the crimson moon of Wynch, the warhorn of the Goodbrothers, but there was another flag he hadn’t seen before.

It was a red eye with a black pupil beneath an iron crown supported by two crows.

As he looked beyond the Iron Fleet he saw a host of merchant ships floating on the sea. He saw cogs, fishing boats and many more ships, his brother’s spoils of war.

All the while, Euron stood proudly upon the deck of the  _Silence_  and presented his suit of black armor for everyone to see. It was dark as smoke and his brother wore it as if it was the lightest of garments. The scales glimmered red-golden as he moved, its patterns bright and beautiful to behold.

 _Valyrian Steel_ , Aeron realized. _Valyrian Steel._

It was a damning realization. It meant that Euron had told the truth.

His brother had been to Valyria, a place that stolen his brother’s wits.

“Your Grace,” Torwold said. “What shall be done with the priests?”

“Bind them to the prows,” his brother commanded coldly. “My brother on the  _Silence_  and the others… take each one for yourself.”

The mutes did as they were told and bound him to the prow of the ship, beside the figurehead, a naked maiden with outstretched hands and long flowing hair…

Suddenly, the sound of a drum filled his hears and the oars were rising and dipping, water splashing against his face.

As he looked back, he saw that the castle was being eaten by the flames of a fire, black tendrils of smoke reaching for the sky.

“Brother, I have a sweet gift for you,” Euron whispered into his ear when he returned to his side.

A heartbeat later, two of his bastard sons dragged a woman forward and bound her to the prow. She was naked, her belly swollen with child and her cheeks wet with tears.

Aeron choked back a sob, both for himself and for the girl.

He had warned them. He had warned them all, but nobody wanted to listen…

His faith was all that was left to him now.

“Falia Flowers,” Aeron whispered to the girl, to make it easier. “Have courage! When all is over, we shall feast together in the watery halls.”

She looked up, but no sound left her mouth.

She had no tongue to speak.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Aeron's pov is a bit confusing...Well, that is intentional. He is kinda confused himself.
> 
> For those who have not read the books: he is the weird priest who drowns people and stuff. He is another brother of Balon and it is kinda implied that Euron enjoyed raping him...Well, there really is nothing redeeming about Euron.
> 
> Honestly, he is just plain evil.
> 
> Which makes it so hard for me to write him.


	83. The Hand of the King

**Griff**

Jon felt the need to curse the gods when he took a glimpse at the landscape spreading before him.

Thick black clouds hung in the sky, blending out all sunlight. It had rained all morning, a constant drizzle that had turned the fields around Storm’s End into a soft soup of mud.

It would be difficult to use their heavy cavalry under such conditions, but made it completely impossible to use their elephants. As their self-declared elephant master Peak Peakwood had told Jon this morning, did the animals not only dislike the cool weather, but would most likely end up stuck in the mud.

 _He is worse than Strickland_ , Jon thought and fumbled nervously with the fasting of his cloak.  _The bothersome animals can die for all I care, but Peak is not wrong. They would only hinder our men and might yet be useful when make for King’s Landing._

“Looks like we are going to have to crawl through a soup of mud, my Lord,” Ser Franklyn Flowers said and jerked his ugly head at the black sky. “What are we going to do?”

Jon Connington nodded his head and walked back to his horse in a brisk pace.

He grabbed for the reins of his horse in an angry motion and climbed back into the saddle, before shifting his attention back to his companions. There was Ser Tristan Rivers, a bastard from the Riverlands, Denys Strong, the son of a whore and an exiled knight and Dick Cloe another man with a rather questionable claim to the name Cole. All had sent out twenty men to search the landscape for the enemy’s outriders.

Mace Tyrell was a fool, but Lord Rowan was not. Jon had been proven right in that point, when Dick Cole’s men brought him four Reachmen.

Through these men, they had also gotten details on the enemy’s numbers, the composition and he exact position of the enemy camp.

Lord Rowan was commanding these troops and had erected his camp on a distant hill, a good hundred leagues away from Storm’s End. As expected, the enemy’s numbers surpassed theirs and counted around fifteen-thousand men.

The composition of the enemy’s troops was much harder to estimate. According to Dick Cole’s men, two-third of the army consisted of infantry men, most of them knights and armed to the teeth. A bit more than one third was made of heavy cavalry, but that was no surprise to Jon. The Reachmen had always been proud of their well-bread destriers and Jon was very much aware of the danger they could pose, but this was the Golden Company they were facing and not a handful of framers armed with pikes and pitchforks.

 _The mud might actually work in our favor_ , Jon mused and looked at Ser Franklyn and the rest of his men that were still waiting for his answer.

“We are going to fight,” he told the men, trying not to show his doubts. “But we will have to adapt our battle plans to the current conditions. If we sent our horse through that mud, we are going to be stuck. We ought to rely on our archers and infantry instead.”

Ser Tristan nodded his head in agreement, an amused grin spreading on his lips. “You are quite right, my Lord. The fields before you have been ploughed deep for autumn. Horses and heavy armor will not serve us in such conditions. We ought to rely on agility.”

“And what does that mean?” Ser Franklyn asked in obvious confusion. Jon was not surprised. Ser Franklyn was not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. “Besides, what does a man like you know about ploughing fields? I thought you grew up in a pretty castle?”

“I am a bastard like you, Shitface,” Ser Tristan replied with a broad grin. “I know plenty about ploughing fields and girls…if you know what I mean.”

The other men laughed and Frankly was about to hurl himself at the man, but Jon’s cold look stopped him in his tracks.

“Stop this nonsense, Franklyn,” he snapped first at the Fassoway bastard and then at Ser Tristan. “You two are behaving like children.”

“Of course not, my Lord,” Ser Tristan replied and lowered his head. ”As for the upcoming battle…I agree with your assessment. It would be foolish to waste our cavalry.”

“Which is why I must speak with Strickland. The rest of you know what must be done…” Jon replied and led his horse back to the narrow road snaking its way through the patch of wood spreading south. Ser Franklyn followed suit, an unhappy expression showing on his ugly features. He and the bastard from the Riverland’s were constantly at each other’s throats. It was ridiculous and under different circumstances, Jon would have punished them for their foolishness, but the battle was upon us and he needed his King’s men to be ready to lay down their lives for him.

They passed the woods as quickly as possible, the hooves of their horses sinking deep into the wet earth and the high fir trees casting them in shadows.

Jon had chosen this route for these reasons. The thick woodlands that plastered the outskirts of Storm’s End had once served as a fertile hunting ground for the Lord of the Stormlands and provided ample protection from enemy’s eyes.

 _How many times has the usurper hunted here_ , he wondered not for the first time and felt the sudden urge to burn down everything around him.

Hunting, besides burying himself in his whores, had been Robert Baratheon’s greatest passion. Especially, boards had been his favorites. No matter how scary these beasts had been, he had killed each of them…until one of them did him in. It was as if the gods had heard Jon’s pleadings and they had sent this special boar to gut the usurper like a pig for slaughter.

Oh, what a glorious day that had been. Jon had laughed and laughed, though it hadn’t been enough to ease the pain in his heart that always reminded him of his greatest failure.

 _I will not fail again_ , Jon Connington vowed _. I will not fail again._

They had erected their camp on a clearing where the canopy of the trees was so thick that scarcely any light was able to pass through. Some tents had been erected, but most of their men sat together and were always ready to move on.

Strickland’s golden pavilion could be found in the middle of these good dozens of tents.

Jon brought his horse to an abrupt halt and handed the reins to a flabbergasted squire. Ser Franklyn dismounted at a slower pace and stumbled after Connington, barely able to keep up with him.

Jon couldn’t care less and brushed the flaps of the tent aside, finding Harry seated at the table and silver cup of hot wine in hand. Jon was just relieved to see that he wasn’t having another one of his hot baths.

“How are your outriders doing, Griff?” Strickland asked and graced him with an accusing look. “The rain was strong and they say it’s going to keep pouring.”

“Fuck the rain,” Jon snapped back and grabbed one of the maps from the nearby table.

He quickly unrolled the piece of paper and on the wooden table, before he shifted his attention back to Strickland.

“Call for the other men. We have to change our battle plans,” he declared without pretense. “If it pleases you, Lord-Captain.”

Strickland frowned, but did as he was asked. He knew better than to anger Jon.

Not long after, the captains and came pouring into the golden pavilion. By now, Jon had memorized most of their names.

There was Brendel Byrne, Will Cole, Dick Cole’s younger brother, Caspor Hill, Malo Jayn, Little Pussy, Jon Lohnston, Lorimas Mudd, Old John Mudd, Thomas Mudd, Humpfrey Stone, Two Swords, Laskell Peak, Peak Peakwood and Watkyn, Strickland’s bothersome squire.

Ser Franklyn had taken position beside Marq Mandrake, who was watching Jon warily. Lysono Maar, their spymaster, was seated beside Strickland and Black Balaq, the most important piece in Jon’s adjusted battle plan.

“What is all this fuss about, Griff?” Lysono Maar asked and yawned. “Are we going to turn our tail and run? Have you forgotten about _your_  King?”

“Shut your bloody whole and listen,” Jon snapped and pointed at the map. “We are not going to run, but we are going to change our strategy. Instead of depending on our cavalry we are going to depend on our infantry and archers.”

Black Balaq grinned and Strickland’s frown deepened.

“The rain changed your mind, didn’t it?”

Jon was glad that the man was using his brain for once.

“Instead of placing the archers behind the infantry I we will place them at the flanks with two or three-hundred men infantry to protect them. As for the rest of our mounted knights…I want them to unhorse and fight with the rest of the infantry.”

“But what about my archers?” Black Balaq asked anxiously. “You want to place them at the flanks? Do you think a few hundred men infantry are enough to protect them?”

“We have already fashioned sharped stakes,” Jon replied bluntly and searched Black Balaq’s face. “That should provide them further protection against the unfortunate knight that manages to cross the soup of mud.”

“That is if they fall for your trap,” Strickland argued and leaned forward. “You are hoping they will focus their strength on our infantry?”

“But that would be the most stupid thing to do,” Lysono Maar pointed out. “If the enemy had any brain they would focus on the archers.”

“Well, if they were a sellsword company I would agree with you, but these are knights who pride themselves on killing other knights. They won’t go for the archers.”

“Very well,” Strickland added and cleared his throat. “I assume that means my priced elephants will be spared?”

Jon sighed, for he had known that Strickland would ask about these bothersome beasts.

“They are safe for now, Strickland.”

Harry smiled and brought the cup to his lips.

“That pleases me, my Lord.”

“Does that mean we have reached an agreement?” Jon asked and swept his gaze over the assembled men.

Most nodded their heads in silent agreement. Only Black Balaq grinned from one ear to the other.

“My archers won’t disappoint you, my Lord.”

Jon couldn’t bring himself to smile. Only a fool would show enthusiasm for a battle.

“What I think doesn’t matter, fool. Our King is the one you owe  _your_ loyalty to.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it took me long, but I was sick...I still am..I have a cold...so forgive my delay.


	84. The Battle for Storm's End

**Griff**

Morning dawned cold and grey, a few splatters of rain blowing over the ploughed fields. The rain had finally stopped, leaving patches of mist clinging to the tree lines to the left and right of their chosen battlefield.

The enemy had erected their camp atop a ridge that stretched below the shadows of Storm’s End. So far away, it was hard to make out their movements, but Jon was sure they had seen them by now and were most likely preparing for battle.

Still, Jon intended to wait. They enemy had chosen a superior position and he wanted them to pull back their troops from the siege to signal the garrison of the castle that help was finally coming for them…

 _In truth, we are bastards hiding under a Stag’s pelt_ , Jon thought as he tried to ignore the song of the drums.

It was a cheerful rhythm that was accompanied by the flaring sound of trumpets. It was the battle song of the Golden Company and above the drum men fluttered their proud banner. This banner, that was being flown from long wooden poles, formed the center of their battle line and was joined by the gold-and-black banner of house Baratheon. It was a sight that pained Jon, but it was necessary.

Yet, these dyed banners were nothing compared to the sea of silk and linen that was flown by the Reachmen, though it were not the enemies pretty banners that frightened him, but their crossbowmen.

 _Mayhaps Lord Rowan is smarter than I thought_ , Jon agonized, but brushed these doubts away before they were able to take hold of his mind.  _No…and even if they attack…these crossbows don’t have the same reach as our longbows._

These thoughts were quickly banished from his mind when the enemy finally responded to their presence, playing up their own songs. It was a strong and insistent rhythm that was soon overwhelmed by the flaring trumpets. The song was distant, rising and dipping on the cold wind coming from the north.

As this was happening, the enemy’s troops began to assemble on the other side of the battlefield. The majority of the army was made up of infantry, but one the flanks Jon could see the famed cavalry of the Reach. Masses of mounted knights could be seen, their armor glittering in the dim sunlight that was finally bursting through the grey clouds.

“They didn’t waste any time to line up for battle,” Strickland remarked beside him, the sound of his voice muffled by the visor of his helmet.

“They seem eager to fight,” Jon replied and trapped his fingers against the smooth surface of his gauntlet. “And it seems the pouring rain from the previous day escaped them. Well, I suppose they cannot even think up a battle that cannot be fought without their proud horses. I can’t fault them, though. They are graceful beasts. It’s truly a pity we will have to butcher them.”

Strickland scoffed. “Do you even have a heart, Griff?”

Griff knew that Strickland was trying to mock him, but his answer was serious as ever.

“Not since I suffered my greatest loss.”  _Not since I have failed my Silver Prince._

Strickland said nothing as Jon lifted his head and swept his gaze over _his_ King’s men.

The center was commanded by Strickland, though in truth it was Jon who was playing the role of the Lord-Captain. The battle line on the right was commanded by Two Swords, while the left line was commanded by Old John Mudd. Between these three battle lines they placed two smaller groups of archers, most of them crossbow men and green boys, while the larger amount of their well-trained longbow men were placed at their right and left flank. Those two masses of archers, each holding a wooden stake, were angled ahead of the line’s center so that the arrows could fly at the enemy from the sides, while the front rank of their dismounted man-at-arms stretched before Jon.

As they waited, the enemy continued their back-and-forth exchange of songs, but made no move to attack. It had been too much to hope for.

Jon clenched his teeth as he noticed the enemy’s mounted knights exercising their horses, instead of going along with Jon’s wish: to attack.

As the next hour passed, the sun was climbing higher and higher, casting a golden glimmer over the tree lines.

It was close to winter, so much was clear. Many of these trees had already lost their leaves, their branches thin like bones.

When the bothersome drumbeat became too much for him to endure, Jon realized the time for waiting was over.

_I won’t make the same mistake again._

“Let’s put an end to this bothersome waiting,” Jon told Strickland. “They won’t move until we show them that we are prepared to fight. Tell the archers to advance!”

“As you say, Griff,” Strickland replied and waved his hand at the horn blowers. “The gods will tell us if _your_ King is worthy of the crown!”

 _Fuck the gods_ , Jon thought.  _If there were any gods to begin with a worthless swine like Robert Baratheon would have never sat the Iron Throne._

Jon watched as Black Balaq’s men began to advance. They moved at a pitiful pace, dragging their feet out of the wet soil at every step.

Even so, the enemy was still patient to watch them.

There was no urgency to their movements nor did the sound of the enemy’s trumpets change their tune. It seemed they were completely fine to watch Black Balaq’ archers struggle through the mud.

“They are either cowards or think us no threat,” Strickland muffled remark reached Jon’s ear.

“No, they are finally moving!” Jon exclaimed when he noticed that the enemy’s mounted knights were finally forming up at the flanks, their long lances pointing to the grey sky. “And Black Balaq’s men have nearly reached their position.”

The enemy was close now, the approximate position from which one of their arrows would be able to reach the enemy.

Jon watched in tense silence as the archers pushed their stakes into the ground. As they were doing this, he lifted his head and glanced back at the enemy that was still not making any attempt to move.

_Fools._

When the archers were beginning to string their bows, Jon waved his hand at the horn blower, not waiting for Strickland’s command.

 _Nook_ _,_ the unspoken command rattled in Jon’s ears, but it took much longer to come to pass, an agony for Jon, who had a commanding view over the sea of enemy knights armed with all kinds of fearsome weapons. He saw lances, pole-axes, mauls, maces, gleaming shields, swords and plumes flying in the air like the bright tails of dragons.

The horn roared once, twice and a third time, before the world fell back into silence.

The sound of the loosening bowstrings reminded Jon of a man’s finger plucking on a harp string.

Then, followed the sound of arrows touching the sky. It was like the sound of rushing wind that dissolved for a glorious moment of silence, as two thick clouds of arrows climbed into the sky. For a brief moment, they looked like to terrifying storm clouds, before the arrows came down upon the enemy in a rain of needles.

The clattering sound of steel rang in the air and was soon accompanied by the shrieking sound of the enemy’s horses.  Several of these animals on the right flank had suddenly bolted forward and now the enemy was preparing for a charge.

All the while, their footmen were waving their weapons, taunting the enemy with the motto of House Baratheon. “Mine is the fury! Mine is the fury!”

It was said in a mocking manner, the only fitting way to use the words of this disgraced house.

As the screams of the men-at-arms changed to a clamor and the enemy charged.

They kicked spurs into their horses, lowered their lances and called their battle cry, splutters of mud being thrown into the air as the horses pushed forward. The charge of a cavalry was always slow at the beginning, the mounted knights riding knee to knee, so that the whole line of horses could struck the enemy together in one savage blow.

Only at the last moment, the riders would be able to kick their horses into a gallop, but the ploughed land was too soft and the rain of arrows so sudden, that many of these riders moved impulsively forward to escape when another  volley of arrows came raining down on them.

Now the enemy was finally charging on both sides, their hoses moving as fast as they could carry their riders clad in heavy plate.

As this was happening, the archers drew and loosened their arrows in quick succession. They would never be able to pierce the thick plate of the knights, but they could penetrate the padded cloth that was supposed to protect the horses.

And as the distance lessened, Black Balaq’s archers responded in turn, lowering their trajectory and shooting straight into the charging horses.

Jon could hear the pitiful screams of animals and saw riders being hurled from their saddles. Some didn’t even reach the lines of the archers and others stumbled over the stakes meant to protect their lines.

By now, the other horses had sensed the danger ahead and were trying to wheel backwards, no longer responding to their masters’ commands.

Thus, the first charge had ended in a failure.

The charge had been meant to scatter their archers, but the arrows had done their bloody work and the sharpened stakes had stopped the rest of the onslaught.

It also seemed the enemy recognized its folly and thus the infantry began to advance on foot.

The enemy’s first battle line was spread wide across the ploughed field, but because of the tree lines on the left and right, the mass of knights was being squeezed inwards.

And all the while the arrows were drumming down on the enemy, dissolving their lines and haltering their approach further.

“It is time for _our_ infantry to move forward, Griff,” Strickland reminded him and Jon felt the urge to throttle him, despite the truth in his words.

“Give the sign!” Jon snapped and waved his hand at the horn blower. The roar of the horn announced the advance of the infantry, all slow and disciplined as they were trained to do.

 _Let them come_ , Jon had told their men during their last war council. _Let them come._

Old John Mudd and Two Swords pulled it up perfectly: when the enemy rushed forward to bridge the rest of the distance, their own men moved quickly backwards.

Thus the unified attack of the enemy went into nothing and caught them completely off guard.

As the enemy faltered, their infantry moved forward, accompanied by the sound of their war drums.

_Da-Dumm! Da-Dumm! Da- Dumm!_

_Thank the gods_ , Jon thought when the enemy’s lances turned out to be shorter than their own. _Thank the gods._

From thereon, it was like watching a bloody play. Most of their enemy was on the ground or stuck in the mud,  bleeding in a tangle of collapses bodies and discarded weapons that jutted into the air like needles.

All the while the drums were pounding.

_Da-Dumm! Da-Dumm! Da-Dumm!_

Still, the enemy continued to fight, but whenever they tried to move forward they were met with lances, pole-axes and maces, ready to crack their helmets or find the weaker points of their armor and had to climb over their fallen companions.

These knights of summer made a pitiful sight, but that was what they deserved for their foolishness.

_Die, you fools! Die!_

Yet, the knights of summer continued to fight and by midday, the lines were aligned in the middle, struggling against each other like two merchants haggling over a piece of coin.

Black Balaq’s archers, who had long run out of arrows, had also joined the butchery.

 Jon and Harry were also not spared to bloody their blades.

Jon smiled when he was finally allowed to draw his sword over the enemy’s face, a hot spurt of blood touching his helmet.

The butchery continued past midday, when they finally managed to break through the enemy lines. This was enough to send the enemy’s left flank into a rout, which would usually mark the end of a battle, but Jon had not forgotten the promise he had made to himself: no mercy.

Jon forced his men to pursue the enemy back to the castle, waving their gold-and-black banners as they went.

 _Soon_ , Jon reminded himself as he led his mount over fallen bodies of men and horses alike,  _Soon._

Compared to the bloody battle, the rest of the way felt like a breeze. They pursued the enemy back to the camp and took hold of the baggage train and siege weapons arrayed around the castle.

That the garrison of the castle had aided them by peppering the enemy with a constant volley of arrows from above had also helped, but only when the stream of arrows finally halted and the banner of House Targaryen was flown from Storm End’s tower, was the battle truly at its end.

 _I did it_ , Jon thought as he watched the black-and-red cloth fluttering in the wind. _I did it._

Yet, he was smart enough to know that this was only the beginning, but no true victory.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I am not happy with it...but it is what it is.


	85. The Parley

**Mance**

Mance woke to the sound of whispering voices, but that was the least of his problems. His real problem was his pounding head, caused by the dozens of cups of ale he had consumed on the day before.

 _I am getting too old for this_ , he thought wearily and brushed his ragged hair out of his face, before trying to untangle himself from the bear pelt he used as a sleeping skin for himself and his woman.

Said woman, Dalla was her name, was watching him with furrowed brows while she was suckling their babe.

 _I have a son_ , he reminded himself for the hundred time that day, though the boy showed little resemblance to him. His face was red and squashed, a result of the long birthing process, and his head was covered with a patch of blondish hair so common in Dalla’s family. Only his eyes he had inherited from Mance, a brownish color that Val called ‘muddy’. Mance didn’t care that his boy didn’t take after him as he didn’t consider himself a particularly good-looking fellow. _Better for my boy to look like his beauty of a mother._

“Have you slept well?” Val asked, who was seated beside Dalla, a white fox pelt wrapped around her shoulders and her golden hair following freely down her shoulders. There was a grumpy tone to her voice. “Well, I haven’t. You have been snoring like a bloody giant, Mance.”

Mance laughed, not the least bit insulted by his good-sister’s harsh words. On the contrary, her grumpy temper made it all the more entertaining to vex her.

“I am glad that I can compete with Mag the Mighty,” he declared and rose to his full height, not hiding his nakedness. Not, that Val would care. She was a woman of the Free Folk and they were used to share skins and not only to enjoy themselves.  “Am I also endowed like a giant?”

Val’s grey eyes narrowed and she took a sip from her  wooden cup, eying him like a horse, before turning her head to look at Dally.

“No wonder you are always half a sleep when Mance’s humping you.”

Dalla chuckled, not bothered by her sister’s usual jesting tone and continued to suckle their child, who seemed enjoy himself.

Mance didn’t care either. He knew that Dalla found him more than satisfactory and went to dress. First, his pair made of wool breeches, followed by his tunic, his gloves and his cloak.

When he was done, he shifted his attention back to Val, who had long risen to her feet, leaning on her spear.

“Out hunting for fresh meat, are you?” Mance asked his good-sister. For the last moons, Sigorn had been keeping her bed warm, but a few days ago he had seen him humping Ygritte. Val must have sent him on his way, unhappy with something he had said or did. Val was a great beauty like her sister and could have any man she wanted, but she was a picky one.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she overplayed her obvious intentions and crossed her arms in front of her.

But Mance didn’t want to let it go.

“Come on, dear good-sister. Who is the poor fellow?”

“No, one,” Val hissed and pulled the door open, finding the Magnar of Thenn’s warriors standing guard before their door and giving Val curious looks.

“What is wrong? Do I have something in my face?” Val asked and pushed the confused men as side, descending down the steps to join the others.

Dalla, who had placed their babe back into his crib, gave him a chiding look.

“Don’t vex her,” Dalla complained. “I think she regrets chasing Sigorn away. Well, you know how it goes. Hot-headed people like that squabble easily. I am still hoping they will make up again.”

“Ygritte won’t like that,” Mance replied and wrapped his hands around Dalla, lifting her up into the air.

“Stop it!” Dalla complained, a soft laugh spilling from her lips as Mance whirled her around like a little girl. “I am getting dizzy.”

Mance did as he was asked and placed her back on the ground, jerking his head at their mewling son.

“It think he is hungry,” Mance remarked and received a playful slap on the shoulder. “He comes after me. Always hungry.”

Dalla shook her head and placed a kiss on his cheek, before trudging back to their babe.

“He is wet, not hungry,” she explained matter-of-factly. When Mance stepped out of the door he found the guardsmen staring at him with odd amusement.

They know him only as the King-Beyond-the-Wall, who had defeated all his enemies in the most ruthless manner possible. They were not used to seeing him so elated.

Yet, Mance couldn’t help it.

Taking the Wall was something he had never thought possible. So many before him had failed in this task, but he, Mance Ryder, orphan and oathbreaker, had been successful. 

Even so, there was still much work to do. Recently, they had started to man the deserted castles, but there were still thousands of his people beyond the Wall, waiting to cross over. Mance would have liked to let them pass through without hinderance, but that was simply not feasible. Not even, the mighty Wall could hold all these people and giants.

No, he needed to make peace with the North if wanted to save _all_ his people.

It was the dust-infested _Shieldhall_ they had chosen as the place for the parley.

Dalla’s woman had done their best to sweep the floors and had lightened candles, but even that didn’t help to make the place any homelier.

As the Northmen entered, their true thoughts were visible on their faces.

There Robb Stark, who took his seat at the head of the table, but most of  Mance’s men saw him as nothing more than a green boy and that was no surprise. Not even the fuzz of red hair growing along his jawline was enough to make him look older than his years. The massive wolf that lay curled in the corner of the room, certainly helped to improve his status a little, though for most warriors in Mance’s employ a direwolf was nothing special.

Beside Robb Stark sat a young man with a longish face, framed by plain brown hair and garbed in a black cloak embroidered with a silvery sun. _House Karstark_ , Mance knew. _Must be Rickard Karstark’s son._

On the other side sat a plump woman with dark hair, a black bear with bared fangs visible on her tunic and cloak. _Mormont_ , Mance knew. Tormund had once bragged in his presence that he had fucked a Mormont woman, fathering two or three children on her.

Mance eyed the girl’s face closely, but found no sign of Tormund in her.

_You are a braggard, old friend! A true braggard!_

At last, Lord Stark was allowed to join them, led into the hall by two Thenn men.

The man, barely older than Mance, looked weary and exhausted as he sat down beside Robb, the eyes of Lord Karstark and Lady Mormont following him at every step.

Once, Lord Stark had taken his place, Mance cleared his throat and swept his gaze over the crowd of men and woman assembled around him.

There was Tormund with his son Torreg, Sören Shieldbreaker with his two sons, Orell the Warg, Ygritte and a dozen of young spearwives that had survived the assault at the Wall, Arle the Walrus, The Magnar of Thenn and his son, Red the Redbeard and his horde of fire-kissed daughters, Snowbear the Bloody, one of the few leaders of the Ice-clans that had not remained behind when Mance had called his banners, and the four leaders of the Hornfoot clans. Clack was the oldest, his beard grey and white and held together by hundreds of bronze rings. He was flanked by Gorin and Greyfang, two young men with muscles as thick as tree trunks. Greyfang’s father had once tried to murder Mance, but he had defeated him in combat and thus he had won the trust of the Hornfoot clans. At the furthest edge of the table sat Longspear Ryke and his new spearwife Murra.

To the Northmen they must look like a horde of unwashed barbarians, but that was nothing new to Mance. He was also glad that Lord Stark had been smart enough to keep the Umbers and the Lord from the Mountain Clans away. They would have long murdered each other.

Assured by the presence of his men, Mance shifted his attention back to Robb Stark.

“Shall be begin?” he asked and graced the boy with an encouraging smile.

“We may begin,” Robb Stark replied with a very serious expression. _He is truly Stark’s son, even if he doesn’t look much like him_. _Like my own boy_. “And let me come straight to the point. My Lords won’t like the idea of Wildlings occupying the Wall.”

Mance couldn’t help but to chuckle and jerked his head at Lord Stark. “Your father told you about the threat lingering beyond the Wall, didn’t he?”

“That won’t change the fact that most of my lords despise your kind and would rather kill you than call you an ally.”

“Then, they are fools,” Mance replied without hesitation and shifted his attention to Robb Stark’s travelling companions. Lord Karstark was glowering as if someone had kicked him in the balls while Lady Mormont appeared only suspicious. “When winter comes the Others won’t make any difference between Wildling and Northmen. Truly, your people think themselves too special.”

“And your people murder and rape!” Lord Karstark grumbled. “Why should we trust your tales about grumpkins and snarks? Perhaps you are lying to fool us. My father had a saying ‘Never trust a Wildling’.”

Mance chuckled at that and leaned back in his chair. He had quarreled with the most fearsome of men and wasn’t afraid of this little shit, who knew nothing of the world. On the contrary, he couldn’t help but to return the favor.

“And my people believe you shouldn’t trust a man that that can piss further than you,” Mance replied and shrugged his shoulders. “But these are just words and words are wind, my Lord.”

Mance looked over at Robb Stark and his father as he continued to speak, for his words were meant for them only. “My people are well-aware what you think of them and I do not even deny our crimes against your people. We raped and we pillaged your lands, that is the truth, but there is another truth your stubborn men seem to ignore. We of the Free Folk are not different from you. We have to feed our children and wives and the barren lands beyond the Wall are not sufficient to do that. None of our children asked to be born there nor do we wish to live in constant quarrel with your people, but what choice do we have? Have your people ever made any attempt to reconcile with us? No, instead you put the Night’s Watch at the Wall do to your dirty work for you. Well, the times have changed, my good Lords! The Night’s Watch is done for and now there are two ways we can go about this: We can fight or we can make peace. What do you prefer Lord Stark?”

“I would prefer peace,” Robb Stark replied sincerely and tapped his fingers on the table. “And I am sure my father thinks the same way, but how can we accomplish such a peaceful life? Would your people be prepared to accept our laws? I have met a Wildling woman…her name was Osha. She and her friends attacked my little brother on one day and became his friend on the next. I am well aware that your people are not mindless monsters, but at the end of the day we have very different views about the world. I cannot bring myself to trust your word.”

“And you don’t have to,” Mance offered cordially. “I shall give you certain guarantees that will help to assure you of our willingness to adapt, but in return you must do the same. I have thousands of women and children that need to be fed, but the Wall is no place for them nor is there enough food for them.”

“And you want us to feed your ilk?” Karstark asked suddenly, which earned him a glowering look from Robb Stark and his father. “We have enough mouths to feed as it is.”

“And yet we can’t allow them to starve to death ,” Lord Stark added wearily. “Or the Others will add them to their army of deadman.”

Lord Karstark gave Lord Stark a stunned look, as if he didn’t quite believe that the man in front of him was really putting belief in these fairy tales.

“You heard right, Lord Stark,” Lord Stark replied as if he had been able to sense the younger man’s mistrust. “I believe in these grumpkins and snarks. They are real and they are going to kill us all if we allow them to acquire an army. That is why I agree.”

“But they already have the Wall,” Lady Mormont argued. She looked torn, but less hostile than Lord Karstark. “What more could we give them?”

“The Gift,” Lord Stark explained what he and Mance had discussed in the days before his son’s arrival. “I intend to settle the women and children in the Gift while the men will remain at the Wall to fill the deserted castles. That would solve two of our problems. The Night’s Watch will finally have enough men to defend that Wall and the Wildlings will stop their raids on our lands.”

“As if they will ever stop,” Lord Karstark countered in a rather hostile tone. “Please do not take this as an insult, Lord Stark, but it is rather naïve trust the word of a Wildling.”

Lord Stark’s grey eyes narrowed in displeasure.

“Who says I intend to do such a thing?” Lord Stark asked coldly. “I have discussed this matter thoroughly with _his Grace_. Hostages shall be taken to ensure the loyalty of the Wildlings.”

“Lord Stark speaks true,” Mance added his voice. He didn’t hold much love for the man in front of him, but  he was his only hope to save his people. “And what more could the Free Folk give you than their children and hope for the future?”

“A generous gift,” Robb Stark agreed, but by the expression on his face Mance deduced that he was still unwilling to agree to his demands. “But that won’t convince my lords of your sincerity. You have to understand. I made them bleed through a war and the Ironborn have raided our lands and burned down my home. They might abandon me altogether if I hand the Gift to Wildlings.”

Mance felt frustration bubbling up inside him.

“What do you want from me, my young Lord?” he asked. “What can I do to convince you?”

Robb Stark’s answer came promptly.

“If I want to convince my Lords of the truth, I need to see this enemy with my own eyes.”

Silence reigned, before the hall erupted in snickering and hushed whispers.

Even, his companions and father seemed shocked.

“Robb,” Lord Stark said. “What are you saying?”

“You heard quite right, father,” Robb Stark replied and ignored his father’s piercing gaze. “I want to go beyond the Wall and see these Others with my own eyes. I also intend to add my men to your cause. It is the only way to convince them. Besides, your said yourself that there are still thousands of your people who need to cross the Wall.”

“My Lord,” Lord Karstark said in a flabbergasted tone, but Robb Stark’s expression left no room for further questions.

“Are you afraid of grumpkins and snarks?” the young man asked mockingly. “Or will you stand with me?”

Lord Karstark swallowed hard and dipped his head. “Of course, I gave my vow to you.”

“Good,” Robb Stark replied with great satisfaction and smiled at Lady Mormont. “What about you, my Lady?”

“I shall stand on your side, my Lord,” she replied without hesitation.

Mance hadn’t even considered such an idea nor did he think his people would approve of this. _Rattleshirt is going to piss himself when I bring Northmen beyond the Wall. Well, beggars can’t be choosers…_

“So, what do you say, _your Grace_? Will you fight at the side of an _untrustworthy_ Northman?”

“Mance…my name is Mance,” he corrected the young Lord of the North. “And I say that you are welcome to accompany me to Hardhome. But let me tell you this: the enemy we are going to face is not like any kind you have ever faced, Lord Stark. Even so, there is a chance they might not come. Their appearances are as fleeting as spring.”

He chuckled when he noticed how Val was staring at young Lord Stark. _The girl is hopeless when it comes to men and their pretty cocks._

“What do you say, my Lord? Will you fight at the side of an _untrustworthy_ Wildling?”

Robb Stark nodded his head in agreement.

“I shall fight and watch for the enemy you spoke of.”

 _Foolish boy_ , was all he could think when he saw the eager smile playing on Robb Stark’s lips. _If you knew what they are like you wouldn’t smile like that._

…


	86. The Mockingbird

**The Hound**

After this maddening climb he felt the urge to strangle someone, but the beautiful view at the Giant’s Lance helped to ease his displeasure a little: soft clouds soared over the mountain peak, the snow glittering like diamonds.

Still, he felt the urge to curse the Stark woman for dragging him all the way up here, while Yohn Royce and the old Waynwood woman had been allowed a more comfortable form of travel.

“You are a bit pale around the face, brother, “ Darry remarked almost cheerfully. It was silly remark,  because the Hound’s face was covered with a cowl.

The Hound wasn’t surprised. Darry was a fool who perceived himself as particularly funny.

“Be happy that my stomach is empty or my fast would now be covering your back,”  the Hound quipped and looked around to find Harrold Hardygn stumble around like a man too deep in his cups.

As always, Darry proved to be a mother hen and pulled one of his ‘helpers’ out of the vest of his cloak.

“Here, my Lord,” he offered and showed him a bundle of yellow flowers. Their smell was spicy and strong. “Sniffing at these helps to drive away the feeling of dizziness and drinking it is even better. But it is a strong brew and needs to be dissolved in plenty of hot milk or wine. A Maester will know what to do with this.”

Harrold Hardyng picked the bundle of flowers from Darry’s hands.

“Thank you,” he mumbled and clenched his teeth, his gaze darting to the Crowfucker. The Hound couldn’t fault the boy for being wary of him. He had not made a single sound throughout their whole climb.  That had even chilled the Hound, who was by no means a fearful man. “Thank you.”

As he had said this, the young lordling stumbled forward and would have probably kissed the ground, had the Crowfucker not grabbed his arm.

“Gods, Harry!” Lady Waynwood shrieked and rushed towards the boy, her skirts nearly pulled up to her knees, baring her striped stockings to the world. The Hound had seen many a beautiful leg in his lifetime, but beggars can’t be choosers. It had been more than six moons ago that he had last touched a whore.

“I am well,” the young lordling stuttered and was steadied by the Waynwood woman  and the ever silent  Crowfucker. “I am well.”

“The boy has a weak stomach,” Yohn Royce remarked after the young lordling had been led inside. “Not a good sign for the heir to the Vale.”

The Stark woman frowned when she heard this and cleared her throat.

“We ought to be careful, my Lord,” she whispered and brushed her hand over her pale cheeks. She looked exhausted from the climb.

“Catelyn,” an all too familiar voice caused the Hound to turn around. It was a voice that made his blood boil. It was Littlefinger, arm in arm with Jon Arryn’s widow. At court the men had always jested that the old man’s cock must be as limp as a dead fish, for his wife had always been utterly miserable in his company. Now, she was beaming like a young maid. “It is such a pleasure to see you again, sweet Catelyn.”

Surprisingly, the Stark woman managed the sweetest of smiles.

In that moment, she looked so much like the little bird that his heart ached with old guilt.

“Petyr,” she said and dropped a perfect curtsy. “It is good to find you hale.”

If Littlefinger was surprised by the Lady’s warm greeting it didn’t show on his face. He simply smiled and tried to free himself from Lady Lysa’s grip, but the woman was holding unto him like a babe to its mother’s tits.

The Hound couldn’t help but to snicker when he saw the  uncomfortable look on Littlefinger’s face.

“Petyr and I are wed,” Lysa Arryn declared rather loudly, her blue eyes filled with mistrust. She also looked as if she had finally gotten a good fuck. _Maybe Littlefinger learned something from his whores_ , he mused. “Did you come to wish us luck?”

“I wish that is the real reason, dear sister,” Lady Stark lied and drew closer to place a kiss on her sister’s cheek, who tensed visibly. “But I came here to speak with you about our plans for the future. I have recently arranged a betrothal between my youngest daughter and Lord Harrold Hardygn and a match between Lady Ysilla Royce and our dear brother Edmure.”

“Betrothals I never approved of!” Lady Lysa hissed, but Littlefinger held her back.

“Oh, stop baring your teeth, sweet Lysa,” he whispered into her ear. “This is our dearest Cat you are talking to. I am sure she has good reasons for her actions.”

Within the blink of  a moment, Lysa Arryn was as soft as kitten, a foolish grin spreading over her lips as she rubbed herself against Littlefinger’s lower parts. _Maybe his little finger will stir_ , the Hound wondered _. I have always wondered why they call him that…_

Lady Stark tensed and Yohn Royce’s face looked as if it was carved from stone.

“Lady Stark speaks true,” Yohn Royce said and cleared his throat. “She is here because I asked it of her. I assume the rest of my companions have already arrived?”

Littlefinger graced Royce with one of his unreadable smiles, his gaze flickering to the Hound and then to Darry and the Crowfucker, who had returned moments ago.

For a brief moment, he feared that Littlefinger might recognize him, but nothing of the sort happened. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Royce’s wife and daughter had taken good in concealing his appearance. They had cut his hair and had painted it red. The bandages wrapped around his burned face, the cowl and his simple robes helped to sell his disguise as a ‘holy warrior’ as Hasty had dubbed him, Darry and the Crowfucker.

“These three men hail from the Quiet Isle,” the Lady Stark explained quickly. “They offered their services to me after our men got hurt in a skirmish with highway men. They are the Elder Brother, the Stranger and the Gravedigger.”

“I see,” Littlefinger replied. “What strange names you have, my friends.”

“We of the Quiet Isle give up our worldly possessions…as well as names and titles.”

“I see,” Littlefinger replied and sounded very bored. Then, he shifted his attention back to Lady Stark and kissed her hand. “Well, I am pleased to have you here, Cat. Lord Royce’s companions have arrived a day ago. They are now enjoying Lord Robert’s hospitality.”

 _They should be happy that they are still alive_ , the Hound thought and brushed his hand over the pommel of his sword. One savage blow and Littlefinger would be out of the way, but then Darry and Lady Stark would condemn him as a traitor. No, these were the kind of people who believed in justice and honor.   _We need to do this with the blessing of the gods_ , as Darry would say.

There were five _Lord Declarants_ , as Yohn Royce liked to call his companions. There was Lord Benedar Belmore, the Lord of Strongsong, Ser Symond Tempelton, the Knight of Ninestars, Lord Horton Redfort, Lady Anya Waynwood, the Lady of Ironoaks and Lord Gilwood Hunter, the Lord of Longbow Hall.

Yohn Royce had gathered a great amount of supporters, but the Hound mistrusted the false peace. Especially, the presence of Ser Lyn Corbray among Littlefinger’s sworn swords bothered him.

The Hound knew Littlefinger. He was a treacherous little shit and always prepared to face his enemies.

His suspicions were confirmed when they entered the the High Hall where a dozen of servants waited upon them with soft bread, salt and silver cups filled with the finest summerwine.

The Hound grinned beneath his cowl when Yohn Royce and his companions poured down the wine. These fools didn’t even realize how they were throwing away their chance of getting rid of Littlefinger.

He also noticed Ser Lyn Corbray’s self-important smile as his narrowed gaze flickered over the Hound and his companions.

The Hound knew him only in passing. He was a renowned melee fighter, but he liked to act as if he was the next Dragonknight.

Now, that everyone was assembled, Littlefinger’s guard took position at the door. Only Ser Corbray sat down at the table and continued to caress the pommel of his blade.

Roasted peacock, accompanied by some creamy sauce and another cup of wine was served. It was Dornish wine, but the Hound received none of it. He had to occupy himself with the pursuit of silence as the lords and ladies were stuffing themselves until Lord Hardyng would finally unleash his fast upon the table in front of him.

Truly, that would be a sight to behold, but Littlefinger didn’t hesitate to make the first move.

He smiled as he smoothed the parchment he had unrolled  on the table before him.

“I have been admiring this remarkable declaration of yours,” Lord Baelish quipped. “Your Maester has a true gift for words, my Lords and Ladies.”

Lord Redford wrinkled his brows in suspicion. “Does that mean, you are prepared to see reason?”

“Perhaps,” Littlefinger replied in an almost cheerful manner. “But first I want to hear why you think me a danger for Lord Robert and my beloved Lysa. Ever since I was a ward in Riverrun, I have longed to make her mine, but fate separated us in the cruelest manner possible. For many years, I served Lord Arryn loyally and even after his death I have not stopped. Lysa and I are truly happy and Lord Robert is very fond of me. Cat can confirm our tale to you.”

Lady Stark paled, as all heads in the room turned to look at her.

“Tell them, Cat,” Lysa Arryn hissed like a snake. “Tell them!”

Lady Stark swallowed hard and let go of her cup of wine.

“Petyr…Lysa,” she said and bit her lips in hesitation. Then, she continued. “Nobody begrudges you for your happiness, but this is not just about you. This is a matter of the realm.”

“Exactly,” Yohn Royce added coldly. “To put it bluntly: We do not mind your new husband, my Lady, but there is no reason why Lord Baelish should be the Lord Protector of the Vale.”

“That is not for you to decide!” Lysa Arryn snarled at Royce. “I am the Lady of the Vale!”

“You are Jon Arryn’s widow, so much is true, my Lady,” Lady Waynwood added softly. “But I doubt Jon would have chosen Lord Baelish as his successor.”

“Jon valued Petyr,” Lysa Arryn insisted firmly. “He made him Maester of Coin.”

“In hindsight, another grave mistake,” Lord Hunter added reluctantly. “This oh so capable Maester of Coin helped King Robert to squander away the Iron Throne’s wealth.”

The moment of silence that followed told the Hound that Lord Hunter had spoken to openly.

Littlefinger didn’t hesitate to make use of this opportunity and attacked.

“Surely, a man of the Vale wouldn’t slander our good King Robert?” Littlefinger asked with feigned shock. “Have you forgotten your loyalties?”

“Be careful what you say!” Royce chided Littlefinger. “Lord Hunter’s kin shed more blood for Robert’s cause than you ever did, my Lord Baelish. Let’s be honest…you were just a parasite, picking up the leftovers the Lannister’s dropped on you in passing. And now you are trying to do the same in the Vale.”

“Such insolence!” Lady Lysa shrieked in a pitched voice. “To lay Robert’s failings before Petyr’s door. We all know that it was Robert himself who squandered away his wealth for whores and tourneys! Jon had nothing but headaches with that with him…and perhaps that is what killed him in the end…It must have grieved him to see what our King had become.”

What Lady Lysa had said was not without truth, but most men here had loved King Robert despite his obvious failings. Safe for Lord Hunter, but that was no surprise to him. Everyone in King’s Landing knew the tale about his youngest sister and how Robert had taken her maidenhead. Not long after, the girl’s betrothed, some knight, had challenged Robert for a duel and had gotten his head squashed in by his warhammer. Thus, the girl had ended up dishonored and had been sent to the Silent Sisters.

“I think it is more likely that the Lannisters had a hand in Jon Arryn’s death,” Harrold Hardygn said and broke the silence. “Lady Stark told us that Jon Arryn might have become aware of a very delicate piece of information…the illegitimacy of King Robert’s children.”

Lady Lysa paled visibly, but Littlefinger remained calm as ever, his grey-green eyes flickering to Corbray and then back to Lady Stark.

“Of which I have no doubt,” Littlefinger replied and leaned back in his chair. “I too have heard this truth form Lord Stark. He is a clever man indeed.”

“Aye,” Lady Stark said, a stony expression taking hold of her face. The Hound knew what she was about to say, before she had opened her mouth. “Just like you sold him to his enemies. Isn’t that so, Petyr?”

Littlefinger froze.

For a long time, he said nothing, his grey-green eyes unreadable as ever. The Hound could almost see the machinations going behind these eyes…

“Who gave you these lies, Cat?” he asked and feigned a sad smile. “The contrary is the case. I tried my best to help your Lord Stark.”

Lady Stark’s jaw was as tense as a bowstring, her blue eyes burning with repressed anger.

“You promised to bring the Gold Cloaks to his side, but betrayed him.”

“I did,” Littlefinger admitted and spread his hands wide. “But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. I was forced to break my promise, because your Lord Stark was betrayed by his own blood….your daughter. I just tried to save my skin. Mayhaps that makes me a coward, but not a traitor.”

“Is that true?” Lord Redfort asked and interrupted their exchange. “Did your daughter betray, Ned?”

“Sansa must have been manipulated by the Lannister Queen,” Lady Stark replied hesitatingly and looked over to him. He expected her to reveal his identity, but for whatever reason she decided against it  and averted her gaze. “But…But that doesn’t change the fact that Petyr betrayed Ned to his enemies. A true friend wouldn’t have defended him.”

“Wonderful!” Lysa Arryn shrieked. “So, that is why you came here, dear sister? To confront us with your hypocrisy? Wasn’t it you who abducted the dwarf and caused a bloody war?”

“It is undeniable, my Lady,” Lord Hunter said and nodded his head. “The war was sparked by your actions.”

“I hold no love for Lord Tywin Lannister, but taking his son was foolish,” Lord Belmore added in a grim tone.

“An innocent man at that…the trial was quite revealing,” Ser Symon Tempelton added solemnly.

“I thought the Imp tried to murder my son!” Lady Stark shouted and swept her gaze over the table. “And I like to think that many of you would have done the same in my situation!”

“We understand your pain, my Lady,” Lady Waynwood agreed and leaned over to squeeze her shoulder. “But we shouldn’t allow this to descend into a shouting contest.”

“I for one do not blame you, my Lady,” Harrold Hardygn added his voice. “But I would have cut the dwarf’s..,” he was about to continue, but Royce’s sharp look silenced him at once.

“Lady Waynwood speaks true,” Yohn Royce said gruffly. “Please let us discuss this matter calmly. Such eruptions of emotion won’t serve our cause.”

Lady Stark blushed, her blue gaze piercing into Lord Baelish, who looked a little bit distraught by her hostility.

“You are right, My Lord. I should have chosen my words more wisely.”

“Whatever Lady Stark said,” Lord Yohn Royce added and searched Littlefinger’s face. “We still want you to retire from your position as Lord Protector of the Vale and to hand over Lord Robin to us. You may be no traitor, but you are a man of a questionable character.”

“Never!” Lysa Arryn shrieked and was about to rise to her feet, but Littlefinger grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. “And this from a man who would gladly do away with my son so this Lord Hardygn can usurp his position! Shame upon you! Shame upon you all!”

“Utter nonsense,” Lord Redfort snapped at Lady Lysa. “Yohn Royce is an honorable man. He wouldn’t harm Lord Robert.”

“Yet, he conveniently betrothed his daughter to Edmure and arranged another match between Lord Harrold and Cat’s youngest girl,” Littlefinger added smugly and searched Lady Stark’s face. Something hateful had taken hold of Littlefinger’s eyes in that moment. “Or were your plans for the future just a way to intimidate me, dear Cat?”

“Spare yourself the attempt of playing us against each other, Lord Baelish,”  Lady Waynwood said with a heavy sigh. “We all agreed beforehand that Lord Robert will be fostered in Runestone. More importantly,  he will finally have company other than _his_ mother.”

“You hateful cow…!” Lady Lysa hissed, but Littlefinger’s grip never faltered.

“Calm your anger, sweet wife,” Littelfinger cooed. “Lady Waynwood means well and I agree with her idea. I shall provide Lord Robert with companions. Perhaps Lord Hardyng wants to join them? I would just prefer if Lord Robert stays here in the Eyrie, where he is safe from Yohn Royce’s ambitions.”

Harrold Hardygn made a sour face when he heard this suggestion.

The Hound had met Lord Robert only a handful of times, but he couldn’t fault Harrold Hardygn for his displeasure. Lysa Arryn’s boy was a spoiled little shit.

It also seemed that Yohn Royce’s patience had vanished into nothingness.

“I want the boy!” Yohn Royce declared more sharply. “And I want you gone. There is nothing left to be discussed here.”

It was an open threat.

“Or what, my Lord?” Littlefinger asked teasingly.  “I wonder what Lord Robert will say if his favorite Uncle is murdered under his roof?”

“Nobody said anything about murdering you, Lord Baelish,” Lord Redfort added in a brisk tone. He sounded very impatient. “Isn’t that so, Lord Royce?”

Yohn Royce’s look was telling. He obviously didn’t expect this man to stab him in the back.

 _What promised you Littlefinger_ , the Hound wondered. _Some title or lands?_

“Of course not,” Yohn Royce replied and clenched his right hand to a fist. “But our accusations stand…Lord Baelish abandoned a man we respect and that was loved by Jon Arryn like his own blood. It is quite clear that Lord Baelish wants to turn us against each other and that is exactly why he cannot be trusted. He is a true viper, trying to poison us with his lies.”

“I could say the same about you, my Lord Royce,” Littlefinger argued. “How can we trust a man who has so much self-interest in seeing me removed?”

Yohn Royce looked as if he had been slapped over the face. “Are you accusing me of treason?”

“That is your perception, my Lord,” Lord Baelish retorted. “I am merely pointing out a hard truth. Isn’t that so, Lysa?”

“It is true,” Lady Lysa agreed and nodded her head like a puppet on a string. “More than once Yohn Royce paraded  his little girl in front of Jon, hoping that he might arrange a match between the girl and our beloved so. And when my Jon died he came again, but this time he offered  his cousin. But that is not the worst of it all! And now he and my sister want to drag us into another war …to help this heathen King to his crown!”

Yohn Royce was about to open his mouth in protest, but Lyn Corbray’s laughter caused everyone to turn their heads.

“Truly!” Corbray snickered and unsheathed his blade _Lady Forlorn_. “Listening to all this squabbling makes me sick. Can’t you see, Lord Baelish? It is useless to speak to a stubborn fool like Royce. It is only bare steel that will make him understand!”

Littlefinger made no attempt to move. The others gasped, their eyes fixed on Corbray as if he was a mummer in a play and they were the audience, waiting for the final twist to be unraveled…

“I carry no sword, good Ser,” Yohn Royce replied coldly. “And I must remind you of the guest right.”

 Corbray’s bright smile could have cleaved steel. “Who said anything about breaking the guest right? The way I see it there is a simple solution for our problem: trial by combat. Me against Lord Royce or any champion of your choice, my Lords and Ladies.”

Royce said nothing, sweat rolling down his cheeks, but in that dire moment Darry came to rescue.

“I am usually a man who advocates for peace, my Lords and Ladies” the fool explained and lowered his head in reverence. _What do you think you are doing?_ _Do you want to convert them with another one of your fairy tales about good men and merciful gods?_ “But in this case I think a little bit of bloodshed is indeed the only solution for our problem. And if you allow me, I would like to recommend a champion for our cause…a man of the gods.”

Even Littlefinger seemed surprised, his grey-green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Forgive me,” Lord Hunter added and nodded his head in acknowledgement. “But who are you?

“A man who protected me on my troublesome travel to the Vale,” Lady Stark explained. “A man of the gods…the Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle.”

“That is so,” Darry confirmed. “And as a man of the gods I am not only a healer, but often called upon to sort out quarrels. This is what I propose: a trial of combat between Ser Lyn Corbray and my brother, the Gravedigger. He might not look like it, but he killed many a highway man who tried to attack the Quiet Isle. He cannot speak, but he wields a sword better than most knights.”

 “You want me to fight that holy brother of yours?” Ser Corbray asked without even the hint of fear. “ I think that is going to be fun.”

 “An interesting idea,” Littlefinger agreed wholeheartedly. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. Men of your calling are often wiser than us sinful folk.”

“Perhaps that is what we should do,” Lady Stark added hesitatingly and looked over to Lord Royce. “What do you think, my Lord?”

“Very well,” Lord Royce said and clenched his teeth as he looked at the Hound. _He doesn’t like that a man like me is going to fight for him_. “Let the gods decide.”

Harrold Hardygn said nothing and Lady Waynwood sighed, but the ghost of a smile tugging on her lips was telling enough. “Better than to squabble forever.”

Lord Hunter and Lord Redfort agreed as well. Lord Belmore grumbled a hesitant reply and Tempelton clapped his hands together.

“A good idea!”

“Then, it is decided,” Littlefinger declared and brushed his hand over Lady Lysa’s arm. “What do you say, dear wife?”

She smiled like a foolish girl. “I trust Ser Corbray to fight for us. You have my agreement.”

“What say you, my brother?” Darry asked the Hound and touched his shoulder.

He simply dipped his head and could already feel the excitement rising up inside him. _I always wanted a pretty Valyrian blade. Lady Forlorn will soon have someone to kiss her goodnight._

“You are smarter than I thought, Darry,” the Hound remarked later after they had retreated back to their cambers. Across his lap lay his blade and he was sharpening it properly for the upcoming fight. “You played Littlefinger like a fiddle.”

Darry shook his head and he put his finger to his lips. “And you ought to be silent, brother.”

“And you are wrong…it wasn’t my idea,” he whispered as he leaned closer and pointed at the Crowfucker, who sat beside the window, his head concealed by the hood of his cloak. “It was his idea.”

The Hound shook his head in disbelief and recalled how he had defended him against Beric’s accusations.

Perhaps he had misjudged him.

He was not just a madman.

He was a clever madman.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chaps will wrap up the Volantis storyline and then Dany and Jon will go to Pentos, which will be rather short. Then Westeros.


	87. Bitter Love

**Tyrion**

The Sealord’s unreadable smiles reminded Tyrion of Littlefinger, but that was no surprise. Only a backstabbing man with a lot of wit could have won the bloody elections that usually followed after a Sealord’s death.

 _And true to his merchant’s blood_ , he was a man that liked to bargain. Half the day, they had spent here, haggling back and forth what amount of Robert Baratheon’s debts House Targaryen could afford to repay. Yet, there was also the question of Volantis and what would become of the city. The freedmen welcomed a trade agreement with Braavos, but they didn’t want the Braavosi to rule over them. It was a difficult negotiation, but for Tyrion if felt like coming home.

He had felt so bloody useless since Stannis Baratheon had taken King’s Landing and had murdered his sister, Joff and his father. And while he was not Daenerys Targaryen’s Hand it gave him a certain amount of satisfaction that the stubborn Princess had to depend on him in this matter, something that seemed to irk her as much as it seemed to please Tyrion, though it was Jon’s assurance that had convinced her in the end.

 _Jon is my greatest ally_ , Tyrion reminded himself and brought his cup to his lips. _I need to convince the Sealord and prove myself useful._ _That is my best chance to save Jaime._

“These negotiations feel as if we are running in circles, your Lordship,” Daenerys Targaryen replied in a weary tone. She looked exhausted and her belly was growing bigger by every passing day. Truly, his Lord Father would have rolled in his grave if he knew that Tyrion was helping Rhaegar’s blood back on the throne, but then his father had never cared much about his youngest son. The only reason he had been appointed to the position of Hand of the King had been that no one else in his family had been able to do it. Cersei had been as beautiful as the sun and Jaime was a master less swordsman, but Tyrion had inherited his Lord Father’s wits.

“Only because you are making it so difficult,” the Sealord replied with a warm smile and leaned back in his chair, snaking one foot over the other. He looked completely at ease and was obviously enjoying himself. “All I ask for is Volantis…nothing more and nothing less. Everything has a price, your Grace.”

Daenerys Targaryen grimaced and picked a grape from the bowl in front of her, chewing slowly, before spitting the core into her hand. Ser Jorah had suggested to threaten the Sealord with fire and blood while Ser Barristan had suggested the contrary: to agree to the Sealord’s conditions and to allow him Lordship over Volantis. Jon Snow stood somewhere in between these two views. He disliked the notion of handing over Volantis to the Sealord, but he also didn’t want to threaten the man with dragonfire, especially after he had been so generous to bring Maester Aemon to them. Daenerys Targaryen seemed to agree with him on this matter, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed being played with. It was quite clear that she wanted to leave as soon as possible and the Sealord knew this and was using it as a leverage.

 _And now is my moment to shine_ , Tyrion thought with great amusement and poured more wine into his cup.

“And while you have been running in circles, I have come up with a solution for our problem,” Tyrion added cheerfully and lifted his cup. “And this includes both the matter of the Iron Bank and the rulership over Volantis.”

The Sealord’s smile was as unreadable as ever, one of his eyebrows rising to the top of his head and his hand stroking over his elegant beard.

Daenerys Targaryen regarded Tyrion with mistrust while Jon Snow was watching him with mild amusement. The two of them had been plotting this for a long time.

“Then, let us hear about your grand idea, my Lord Lannister!” the Sealord exclaimed after a moment of silence had passed between them.

“Let us hear what you have to say,” Daenerys Targaryen added carefully and picked another grape from the bowl in front of her.

“First to the matter of the debts,” Tyrion began and cleared his throat. “I shall re-pay off half of them once I am Lord of Casterly Rock.”

The Sealord simply stared at back him in silence and Daenerys Targaryen gave him a curious look.

“You will?” she asked. “How?”

“Aye,” Tyrion replied and graced her with a knowing smile. “By selling the rights to the gold mines in my family’s ownership to the Iron Bank. Only a quarter of course, but that will anger enough of my father’s lords to lynch me. It will be for your dragons to frighten them back into submission, your Grace.”

Daenerys Targaryen didn’t smile.

“I _could_ do that,” she replied instead. “And make you Lord of Casterly Rock.”

They hadn’t spoken about this with Daenerys, but Jon had assured him, albeit hesitatingly, that he would take his side in this matter.

“Of course, you would,” Tyrion added sweetly. “That is what you promised, didn’t you?”

Daenerys Targaryen’s amethyst eyes sparkled dangerously. “We did…And I welcome your help.”

“I am only doing what any faithful subject would do,” Tyrion replied and lowered his head in reverence.

Then, he shifted his attention back to the Sealord. “What say you, your Lordship? One half of the Iron Throne’s debts shall be repaid by the Targaryens and the other half shall be re-paid by me once I have risen to the position of Lord of Casterly Rock.”

The Sealord threw his head back and started to roar with laughter.

“Oh, I like you, my Lord!” he exclaimed and pointed at Tyrion. “What a loveable dwarf you are! I wish to have someone like you at court!”

Tyrion didn’t know if the man was mocking him or being serious. _Probably to put me into a droll custom and make me juggle like a fool._

“Does that mean you agree to _our_ offer?” Jon asked calmly, his dark gaze fixed on the Sealord.

“Of course,” the Sealord agreed and sobered immediately after Jon Snow’s serious gaze had fallen upon him. “I agree. The Iron Bank shall be pleased.”

The Sealord grinned as he leaned forward, his curly black hair falling over his shoulders like a shroud. “But what about Volantis? A smart man like you, my Lord Lannister, must see what advantages such an arrangement would bring to us all!”

“True,” Tyrion agreed. “But I fear your rule would be filled with rebellions and petty uprisings. The freedmen didn’t hesitate to murder their Masters in cold blood. They long for _true_ freedom, so much is clear. So, why not do both? Give the freedman what they want and rule over them at the same time.”

“And how can I accomplish such a feat?” asked Daenerys Targaryen.

“Simple, do what you have been doing in the former Slaver Cities, your Grace. Install a council to rule over the city. The freedmen and the Priests shall each get a voice as well as the Sealord, who shall act as a guardian of the city should one of the remaining Free Cities practicing slavery decide on turning on Volantis.  All of this should be guided by an agreement that shall secure the rights and obligations resulting from such a relationship.”

For the first time, since meeting Tyrion, Daenerys Targaryen truly smiled. It was only the hint of a smile, but he could read by her demeanor that she was fond of the idea.

Well, it wasn’t just Tyrion’s idea. Jon and Ser Barristan had added their thoughts to come up with it, but it was Jon who had agreed to leave the victory to Tyrion so he may win Daenerys’ trust.

And it seemed to work. Tyrion had to give the boy that. He was quite the manipulator if he put his mind to it.

_Perhaps he will make a good King after all._

“And if someone where to go against these rights and obligations my dragons would make sure to punish them,” Daenerys Targaryen added sweetly, but Tyrion could hear the threat behind her honeyed words. “You have heard what happened to the Old Tiger’s Fleet, didn’t you, your Lordship?”

The Sealord didn’t seem intimated, but his usual quick smile had quickly vanished from his lips.

“I heard about them,” the Sealord confirmed and leaned back in his chair. “And I have no intention to sacrifice my men to dragonfire. Yet, you should also be careful, your Grace. Without my assurance the Iron Bank will not even hear your offer and might even support Stannis Baratheon.”

“What about Lord Tyrion’s idea?” Daenerys Targaryen asked and ignored his veiled threat. “Will you consider it?”

The Sealord chuckled and lifted his cup to his lips. “I shall not only consider it, but I shall wholeheartedly agree to it. You might think me a greedy man, but I am not. I am the scion of an unknown merchant family of spice traders. These freed slaves may think me a tyrant in sheep clothing, but I am well aware what hard slavery means. I have travelled throughout the Free Cities since I was a boy of six. I know their pains and woes and I wish to build a better world for them. Even so, I still have to adhere to reality. My keyholders won’t accept it if I come back to them with empty hands. This agreement is a fine idea, but only as long as Braavos will have a _real_ say in the rulership of this city. “

“A say you shall have,” Daenerys Targaryen promised. There was a finality to her voice that was very promising. “Even if I have to invoke the name of Azor Ahai. So, do we have a deal?”

She had raised her cup as she had said this.

The Sealord was smiling again as he lifted his own cup and drank deeply.

“I agree to your offer. We have a deal, your Grace.”

And thus they had finally came to a basic agreement. The details would have to be ratified after House Targaryen had re-taken the Iron Throne, but as with good wine, even agreements needed time to mature.

Of course, Tyrion had no illusions about this matter. The Sealord might have agreed to their conditions, but he was sure that the man would haggle over every right and obligation to be laid down in this agreement.

The Braavosi were all such men. They liked to passionately proclaim their fight against slavery, but on the other hand they were also seeing the profits that could be made in the future.

To sum it up: They were merchants to the boot.

And as true merchants, the Sealord didn’t hesitate to arrange a great feast for them. Where he had stored all this food was a mystery to Tyrion, but he didn’t question it when a plate of roasted pigeon was placed before him. It was his first proper meal in moons, as the Meereenese food had never been quite to his taste. These roasted puppies on sticks and the spicy chicken had forced him on the privy more than his wine consumption had ever done.

Daenerys Targaryen seemed also pleased by the food, for she ate a whole plate and even tasted the honey caked that was served afterwards. There was wine as well and Daenerys Targaryen’s entire entourage was invited, though Ser Jorah glowered throughout the entire festivities as if he had been kicked in the balls.

“Now you must tell me,” the Sealord remarked cheerfully as he leaned closer. His perfumed hair made Tyrion wince. “Is it true what they say? Is Casterly Rock made of pure gold?”

Tyrion laughed at that. “No, that is sadly not the case, your Lordship, but some say that we Lannisters shit gold.”

“And interesting ability,” The Sealord replied with a hint of mockery. “How practical it would be to produce gold in such a manner.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion agreed wholeheartedly. The Sealord was a man after his own heart and he was beginning to enjoy his presence now that the negotiations were over. “I suppose that is true. But who would care about gold if everyone had it?”

“So much is true,” Daenerys Targaryen agreed. “The same could be said about almost everything in this world. The scarcer something is the more valuable.”

“Well, good then that no one can shit gold,” Tyrion added jestingly and even received a hint of a smile form Daenerys Targaryen.

She was seated on a massive chair, furnished with red plush. She looked almost like a child as she sank deep into the soft cushion, her hand constantly resting on her swollen belly.

Boy or girl, there was no question what this child would become when it was all grown up: A dragonlord, the first dragonlord in a hundred years.

Tyrion was looking forward to seeing such a future, but not all would agree with him.

“Ah, my beauty!” the Sealord exclaimed happily as he waved his hand at the beautiful woman that had entered the chamber with the rest of the servants. “Come here, and bring your sweet voice with you. I want you to entertain my guests!”

The woman was of slender build and wore striped robes of yellow and gold, falling around her body like a waterfall. Her arms were covered with a crimson cloak that was held together by a golden laughing face and her dark hair was braided and decorated with glittering stars, yet it was her face that was the most beautiful part about her. Her face, it could have been carved by an artist’s hand: a graceful nose, high cheekbones and full, kissable lips.

Her smile was as bright as her eyes, but there was something unnatural about it.

“What song does his Lordship wish to hear?”

The Sealord leaned on his hand and twirled a single lock around his finger. “You know what song I wish to hear, my sweet. You promised me the Westerosi song we spoke about.”

The woman’s smile faded immediately, but she didn’t refuse the Sealord’s request either.

“I shall sing the song you wish for, your Lordship,” she said and sat down in a chair brought to her by one of the servants.

Everyone turned to look at her and she waited for everyone around her to grow silent.

Then, she started to sing. It was a sweet and melancholic song that soothed the Lady’s voice, a song that was very familiar to Tyrion and woke memories he had wanted to forget.

  _I loved a maid as fair as summer_  
with sunlight in her hair.  
  
I loved a maid as red as autumn  
with sunset in her hair.

_I loved a maid as white as winter  
with moonglow in her hair._

Three more times, the woman repeated the song and added some more verses, some in High Valyrian and others in Bastard Valyrian.

Tyrion understood it all the same and gulped down another cup of wine to drown the feelings rising up inside him whenever her beautiful voice reached his ears.

It was like a massive wave threatening to overcome a ship or perhaps a storm that was causing the dark sea to turn white. Tyrion shuddered as the song rose in strength, before descending into complete silence, leaving him empty and lost.

It felt as if someone had cut his heart open and had filled it with a bitter poison.

Cradling the cup between his trembling hands he looked up and searched her face for the face of another woman, no a girl, that had once sang this song for him over and over again.

Her name had been Tysha, a crofter’s daughter from Lannisport. Her eyes had been dark and her skin tanned from the sun. She had liked to run about barefoot and to place flowers into his hair. Her cheeks had been rosy and her lips full. And her hair, her hair had been brown and dark like burnished copper.

However, this woman in front of him was much more beautiful than Tysha had ever been. Almost too perfect, that one could almost call her ugly. She lacked the dimples around Tysha’s mouth and her nose was much too straight. In that moment, he realized that this woman had never been beautiful. That had only been a mirage, a trick, to stir a man’s cock, or perhaps a bit like the trick of a magician who wanted to fool his audience. Even so, her voice had roused something in him, some long-forgotten memories he had buried deep inside his heart.

 _I can’t be_ , he thought and gulped down another cup of wine. _It can’t be. It can’t be._

He looked again at the woman, who lowered her head and left the room, her robes brushing over the ground like a veil.

“My Lord Lannister,” the Sealord’s loud voice called him back to the present, his sharp eyes looking at him with a mixture of amusement and calculation. “Did you like my Lady’s performance?”

Tyrion could say nothing for a moment. For the first time in his life, his tongue felt as if some had tied it into a knot.

He lifted his head again, his gaze flickering from Daenerys Targaryen to Jon Snow and then back to Daenerys Targaryen and the Sealord. He felt cold and hot at once, the pounding of his heart as loud as a drum.

“Are you well, Tyrion?” Jon Snow asked him and leaned forward to touch his shoulder, but Tyrion backed away, the urge to flee form this ship washing over him. The idea of drowning himself in the sea was suddenly very tempting. “You look very pale around the face.”

Tyrion, who had finally found his voice again, shook his head.

“I am well,” he lied and showed Jon Snow his empty cup. “I am well.”

Jon and Daenerys Targaryen gave him confused looks, but shifted their attention back to the discussion at hand, that had drifted back to the corn prices, dried meat, furs and the pelts Daenerys Targaryen intended to acquire from the Sealord for their travel to Westeros.

The old Tyrion would have taken great interest in this topic, but his mind was still lost in the storm that had washed over him when he had heard the voice of the woman.

 _The voice of a ghost_ , he thought and poured down another cup. It was his sixth cup that night and he was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.

“I am going on deck,” he said in all honesty as he excused himself with a quick bow. The climb up the stairs felt as if someone had placed a good hundred stones unto his shoulders, but when he finally felt the fresh air touch his face, the pounding pain only intensified.

He wasted no time to rush towards the wooden railing. Without a second thought, he pulled himself up and vomited out his guts. The roasted pigeon, the pastries and the rest of his morning meal, it all came pouring out if him like his guilt.

When he was done, he turned around and leaned back against the wood, his body empty and his mind overflowing with misery.

It was the sudden sound of footfalls, that caused him to turn around. First, he thought it was Jon Snow or perhaps Jorah, who wanted to find out where the treacherous dwarf had run off to, but when he saw the woman’s face, he froze.

The woman said nothing, her face indifferent as she looked at him. Her movements were almost ghost-like, but Tyrion knew she was no ghost. She was really there, alive and breathing, the smell of lavender and lemon filling his nose.

It was a smell he thought he would never smell again.

“You don’t look like her,” was all he managed to reply and bumped against the wood behind him. “You are cold…like a puppet. Who are you and how did you get her voice?”

The woman’s dark eyes narrowed as she drew closer, the song of the sea their only witness.

She stopped a handful of feet before Tyrion and brushed her hand over her face, the sight that presented itself to him making his blood freeze.

Tyrion blinked once, twice and a third time, but she was still standing there, an old and familiar face staring back at him and the dead mask that had covered her face, in her hand.

“You are a Faceless Man!” Tyrion gasped, all air draining out of him at once. “Did you come to kill me, then?”

The woman chuckled lightly. It was soft like the sound of the wind, soothing and terrible at once.

“You consider yourself too important, Tyrion,” she said and hid the mask of flesh in the vest of her crimson cloak. Then, she leaned forward, her dark hair falling around her face like a river of ink. “I am here to serve my Lord.”

She was smiling at him. It was a twisted smile, full of pain and hatred.

“Your Lord?” Tyrion asked, his nothing more than an incoherent stutter. “Who is that?”

“The Many-Faced God is my Lord,” she told him and pulled her hand into the vest of her cloak. “And he commanded me to protect the Sealord from his enemies.”

Tyrion’s was even more confused when he heard this.

“Aren’t the Faceless Men assassins?”

“We all serve our Lord,” she replied and pulled her hand out of the vest of the cloak. “And you are wrong again. I have never completely become _No One_. Even so, I serve the Many-Faced-God.”

“Why would your God care about the Sealord?”

“That is not for you to understand,” she whispered as she leaned closer, her warm breath brushing over his cheek. “He serves our god’s cause and that is why he needs to be protected. You are serving his cause too, which is the only reason I am not killing you right now.”

Tyrion had never seen so much hatred in her dark eyes. Not even Cersei had ever looked at him like that.

“Tysha…,” he said, as she straightened herself, but stopped midway. She grinned and held out her balled hand towards him. She opened it right in front of Tyrion’s nose and dropped something golden into his lap.

“A Lannister always pays his debts, even to shameless whores like you,” Tysha told him and trembled. For that brief moment, she seemed almost human again, but it lasted only for a heartbeat. “That is what your father told me when he sent me on my way.”

Tears exploded in his eyes as he leaned forward to touch her robe, but she pulled away as if his touch was poison to her.

“I understand that you are disgusted by me…,” he stuttered. “But you must understand…Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” she asked hatefully. “That your father’s men mounted me like a bitch and raped me until I was bloody? That you joined them on your father’s command? Tell, me…What is there to explain?”

Tyrion bit his lips, blood dripping unto his doublet. The pain should have eased his guilt, but it was no use against his aching heart.

“Jaime told me you were a virgin whore…I thought you fooled me…but even so…I never wanted this…You have to believe me,” he stuttered, more tears rolling down his face. He tried to brush them away, but it was no use, for more and more tears came rolling down his cheeks and burned into his cheek. “Tysha…”

“Don’t say that name!” she shrieked and grabbed his face, her fingernails digging deep into his cheeks. “That name means nothing to me anymore!”

Tyrion didn’t dare to move, his eyes seeking hers. “What is your name, then?”

“They call me the Waif,” she told him and scratched her fingernails over his cheeks, drawing blood as she went.

Tyrion grabbed her arm as she tried to back away from him. “The Waif…a good name.”

“I want to kill you,” she snarled at him, her lips trembling. “I dreamed of it…I dreamed that I would cut you open like a pig and feed your cock to the fish.”

“But your god does not allow it?” he asked, completely transfixed by her dark, burning eyes.

“No,” she replied. “And my hatred is the reason I can never be _No One_ …it is why I cannot forget. This too is your fault.”

“T…The Waif,” he corrected himself quickly and leaned down to pick up the coin she had dropped moments ago. “Jaime told me you are a whore…And…and…All my life I was lied too and fooled with false love…I didn’t know any better. I was a foolish boy.”

She scoffed at that. “I was also a child, but I would have done everything for _you_ and you _hurt_ me. I was never a whore. I was always true to my word, unlike _you_.”

Tyrion shook his head in disbelief.

“Jaime…he…he would never lie to me,” he stuttered. “I understand your pain, but my brother…,” he began, but Tysha spat into his face.

“Is a bloody liar,” she snarled one last time, before she ran off, the darkness swallowing her whole.

Tyrion could neither think nor feel.

A terrible sickness had befallen him. It was an all-consuming hatred that made him burn from the inside out.

It was hatred directed at his brother, his sister, his father and even his…mother, the woman that had birthed him when she ought to have smothered him in her womb.

This hateful creature that only brought suffering upon others.

The Imp.

…


	88. His Watch Has Ended

**Sansa**

The old Maester was growing weaker by every passing day, so much even Sansa could tell by looking at his pale cheeks and shallow breathing.

Jon had told her that the old Maester had served in the Night’s Watch for many years and had endured many a hardship.

 _Perhaps that is way he is dying_ , Sansa thought. _He exhausted himself by crossing the ocean._

Her heart arched for the sickly man, who despite his fragile state, was always smiling at his visitors.

Most of the time, it were Daenerys and Jon who attended to Maester Aemon, but today Daenerys had asked Lady Lyanna, Sansa and Ser Barristan to pay a visit.

Sansa had been curious and Ser Barristan had not needed much convincing to see Maester Aemon, but Lady Lyanna had refused at first, arguing that her presence might only upset him.

“I see, more visitors,” Maester Aemon croaked, the furs pulled all the way up to his chin. To Sansa he looked like a wrinkled, hairless child wrapped in thick swaddling clothes. Even so, there was something kind and wise in the way the old man spoke. “Who is it I wonder?”

“Me and Jon,” Daenerys added softly and leaned down to place a kiss on his cheek. “But you are quite right. We brought you three new visitors: Ser Barristan Selmy, my future good-sister Lady Sansa Stark and…,” she trailed off as her violet eyes flickered to Lady Lyanna.

“Lady Lyanna Stark,” her Aunt replied and swallowed thickly. “You might have heard of me, Maester Aemon. I have certainly heard of you.”

Maester Aemon didn’t look surprised. On the contrary, he smiled warmly, his unseeing eyes flickering to Lady Lyanna, who was still standing at the door. He must have heard her voice.

“My grand-niece told me that you are still among the living. A good thing, by my reckoning.”

“Is it?” Lady Lyanna asked softly, her elegant eyebrows rising to the top of her head as she drew closer. She wore a blue dress of her own making, with long sleeves and a leather pouch fastened around her waist. Her hair was open, but braided on the side to keep her hair from falling into her face. She looked more than ever like Arya.  “Others might think differently. At times, I wished I was dead.”

“I understand why,” Maester Aemon replied in a sad voice. “I often asked myself why I am still alive while the rest of my family perished. I also admit that I nursed a grudge against you and Rhaegar, but now that I have heard the whole tale I think I can make my peace with the past.”

Lady Lyanna stood frozen, her right hand opening and closing. He face was as pale as snow, her grey eyes glittering with tears unshed tears.

“You should not forgive me,” she told Maester Aemon and sat down beside his bed. “There is much blame to be put on me. Well, whatever it is worth I am still alive and I am glad to meet you. Rhaegar spoke much about you.”

Maester Aemon gave a toothless smile. “I am not the least bit surprised about that, my Lady. He wrote to me about you…after the tourney. The boy was hopelessly in love and far too infatuated with his prophecies. Yet, there was little I could do to stop him…Well, perhaps I encouraged him too much.”

The expression on Lady Lyanna’s face told Sansa that her Aunt was surprised by this revelation.

“He really was infatuated with prophecies,” Lady Lyanna agreed and squeezed the old man’s hand. “But that made little difference to me. I loved him for saving me and giving me a choice when not even my own father would listen to me. Ned, he…was the reason I hid away all these years.”

“Lord Stark seemed very sad about the suffering he caused you and  your son,” Maester Aemon added. “I think you should try to forgive him, my Lady. These could be our last days and I think you will feel much lighter once you let go of your anger.”

“I shall try,” Lady Lyanna promised. Sansa understood how hard it must be for her, but then she hoped with all hear heart that they could all find together again.

_How did father always say? The pack survives and the lone wolf dies._

Sansa was only beginning to understand the meaning of these words when she thought of her own sins..

 _I shall ask for father’s forgiveness,_ she reminded herself and watched as Ser Barristan stepped closer. He was usually such a composed man, but now he was trembling from head to toe, his sky-blue eyes wet and brimming with unspoken emotion.

He too seemed to carry a heavy burden that was weighing down on him.

 _He betrayed his vows when he bent the knee to Robert Baratheon_ , she knew. _A man of the Kingsguard is meant to live and die with his King._

“I must ask for your forgiveness, good Maester,” he stuttered, knelt down beside Lady Lyanna and dropped his head.

“Ser Barristan Selmy,” Maester Aemon said in a serious and sad voice. “There is no reason to ask for my forgiveness. The fact that you came to help my kin already proves that you regretted your error and undertook the right actions to repent. And far is it for me, to judge a man that has been pardoned by my grand-niece. I think you forget that I have given up all my titles when I joined the Night’s Watch, though I admit even I broke my vows when I got involved in the matters of the realm.”

“I suppose we are even, then,” Ser Barristan replied hesitatingly. “We both broke our oaths.”

“We truly are a sorry lot of oathbreakers,” Jon remarked with a wry smile. “I suppose it is fitting. Don’t you agree, Measter Aemon?”

“So much is true,” Maester Aemon agreed and chuckled, which soon changed to coughing. He looked as if he was about to burst. When the coughing had subsided he continued to speak. “We were all brought together by strange circumstances…like you and Rhaegar, my Lady Lyanna.”

Her Aunt nodded her head and brushed a stray lock behind her ear.

“Most would say it was ill fate that brought me and Rhaegar together…Well, Rhaegar thought it had to do with this prophecy,” she added and leaned closer so Maester Aemon could hear her properly. “You know all about it, don’t you?”

“Aye,” Maester Aemon confirmed. “And Marwyn here knows about it too. Marwyn, I and Rhaegar spent a great amount of time making sense of the woodswitch’s prophecy. The truth is…We are all members of a group of knowledge seekers founded by Aegon the Unlikely... the League of Knowlege”

“The League of Knowlege?” Jon asked in disbelief. “An order just dedicated to make sense of a silly prophecy?”

Sansa could hear the derision in Jon’s voice, but Daenerys and her Aunt didn’t seem surprised by this revelation.

“Rhaegar loved to read and knew every tale there is,” Lady Lyanna said wistfully and averted her gaze. She choked away a sob, before lifting her head and continued to speak. “Of course, he would partake in something silly like this.”

“It is not silly,” Daenerys insisted hotly. “I too experienced visions in the House of the Undying, some of which have become true. I see not why my brother might not have had similar experiences. Tell me, what did my brother tell you about this Promised Prince?”

“Your brother was a very secretive man, dear child. For some time, he had believed himself to be this Promised Prince and later the son carried by Elia Martell, but shortly before the Rebellion he had changed his mind again. The last time he wrote to me he was convinced that Lady Lyanna was the one meant to birth the Promised Prince…a child of prophecy, a child of ice and fire.”

“But why?” Jon asked, his voice laced with sudden anger. “Why does it have to be me? The Red Priests say one thing and my Father believed another thing. What is true and what is a lie? And why would anyone build his life upon a prophecy? I rather not.”

“It seems to me that all of this is somehow connected,” Marwyn added solemnly and rubbed his chin with his fingers. “And you are quite right. Prophecies should be mistrusted, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a piece of truth to be found in them. Your Aunt here told us that you are familiar with the tale of the Bloodstone Emperor, isn’t that so?”

“What of it?” Jon asked rather flippant. “He was some mad sorcerer who was supposedly slain by this Azor Ahai, who murdered his wife to create a flaming sword. I don’t see how that tale is of any use to us.”

“I understand your anger, my son,” Lady Lyanna added softly and leaned closer to touch Jon’s arm, but he quickly pulled away.

“You don’t understand anything! I am sick and tired of prophecies. I do not even deny that existence of the Others, but I know one thing. They won’t be defeated by me or Dany by turning into some famed hero with a flaming sword.”

“Nobody claims that,” Maester Aemon said in a calming voice. “And the League of Knowlege was not only dedicated to finding answers to prophecies. Our first purpose was to uncover the secrets of Valyria and the art of dragon hatching.”

“Hatching a dragon?” asked Daenerys, her mouth falling wide open. “I see. And you say your brother Egg founded this order? Now it all makes sense!”

“Aye,” Jon scoffed bitterly. “And it seems your lot wasn’t particularly successful. If I remember correctly Aegon the Unlikely obsession with dragons led to the Tragedy of Summerhall.”

“Aye,” Maester Aemon confirmed. Sansa felt the sudden urge to kick Jon. He was a good man, but at times he could be as tactless as Arya. “Aegon was always a dreamer, much like your father. Please tell me, my boy. What would the world be without dreamers?”

“Or doom,” Jon replied darkly. “Aegon’s and my father’s dreams brought doom upon thousands.”

“And so did my grand-niece’s dream of a world free from slavery,” Maester Aemon argued. “And did you not willingly participate in this dream, my boy? Are you not to that extend also a dreamer like your father?”

“That’s different, though,” Jon replied unhappily. “I am helping real people.”

“Aye,” Maester Aemon added and coughed again, his whole body shaking from head to toe. “And why do you think did my brother dreamed of dragons? His reasons were very different from the men that came before him. My brother was always a dreamer, but he had seen firsthand through his travels with Ser Duncan the Tall how much the common folk suffers under the rule of the high lords. Unlike so many others, he was driven by compassion rather than greed for power. Sadly, he failed in this endeavor, but that doesn’t make his attempt not any less worthwhile.”

“And my father?” Jon asked and averted his gaze when Lady Lyanna touched his arm again, though this time he did at least not push her away. “Who did he want to save?”

“Us all,” Maester Marwyn added calmly. “From a terror that is far more dangerous than any living man….the Others.”

“So much we know,” Daenerys agreed. “But how do we do that?”

“That is  still unknown to us, sweet child,” Maester Aemon continued weakly, his breathing growing heavy. “And I am too old and too weak to guide you on this path, which is why you must contend yourself with Marwyn’s help…” he trailed off and drew in a deep breath.

“I am not all that bad you know,” Marwyn added. “And I shall help you as best as I can.”

Daenerys looked skeptical, but nodded her head in acknowledgement, her grip only tightening on Maester Aemon’s arm.

“We are thankful for your help,” she replied softly, but didn’t look at Marwyn. “Perhaps you would excuse us now. My Grand-Uncle is needs his dire rest.”

Sansa knew what she was really saying. _He is dying._

She was about to rise to her feet when Lady Lyanna held unto her arm and held her back.

 _You are also part of our pack,_ her silent grey eyes seemed to say. Sansa clutched her throat and sat back down, her gaze darting back to Jon, who was flexing his burned hand in rapid motion as if he was trying to find some sort of purchase for the feelings trying to burst out of him.

When Marwyn and Ser Barristan had left, Sansa drew a little closer and sat down beside Daenerys, watching the old man and her brother’s betrothed closely.

Sansa had never known her grandfather, but to  meet one of her last relatives and watch him fade away like a flower in autumn must be painful for Daenerys.

“What you said is right, sweet child,” Maester Aemon said in a heavy voice. “I have need of rest and rest I shall have plenty of it…the eternal one.”

“No,” protested Daenerys and grabbed the old man’s hand tightly, her whole form trembling. “No…No…No.”

Daenerys sounded almost like a little child.

It made Sansa realize that she wasn’t so much different the girl in front of her. She had no dragons nor was she a Princess, but Daenerys Targaryen wasn’t any different than other people.

“Dear child,” Maester Aemon said, his voice now barely above a whisper. “You are a good girl, but even your protests won’t make it any easier. I have done what I wanted to do an I have said what I wanted to say. There is nothing for me here anymore.”

“There is,” Daenerys insisted, her voice wavering with every word spilling out from her mouth. “There is still so much you need to tell me!”

Maester Aemon shook his head and smiled warmly, his hand still resting on Daenerys’. Then, he exhaled deeply and moved no more.

At first, Sansa thought he was dead, but then she heard the soft sound of his breathing.

He had fallen asleep.

“Dany,” Jon said to his betrothed and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Mayhaps you ought to lay…,” he began but she cut him off.

“No,” was all she replied. “I shall stay.”

“I shall stay too if it pleases you,” Lyanna offered. “I could say some prayers if you like…though I hold not much love for the Seven.”

“There is no need for prayers,” Daenerys replied, her gaze still fixed on the sleeping man. “But your presence here pleases me. You are my good-sister.”

 Sansa read surprise  on Lady Lyanna’s face, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out of it.

“I shall stay then,” was all what she replied in a hushed whisper.

 Sansa simply nodded her head. “I shall stay too.”

 Hours passed, as the old man continued to sleep. In between, they  had a small supper that consisted of dark bread, roasted meat, onions and a cup of wine. Marwyn also came to look after them, but only shook his head, before leaving gain.

It must have been close to the hour of the wolf, when Sansa was suddenly woken by Ghost’s howl.

 Her eyes hurt as she lifted her head. She had leaned her head against the wall and her neck was now tense like stone.

 Sansa felt embarrassment for her lack of composure, especially when she found Jon and the others still awake.

 Even Maester Aemon was awake, his pale eyes wide open as if he was seeing something particularly beautiful. His breathing was labored as well and he was smiling.

 “Maester Aemon,” Jon whispered as he knelt beside Daenerys, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

 His smile only intensified in that moment, tears glittering in his eyes.

 “Egg,” he said with a heaving breath. “I dreamed I was old.”

 Then, he closed his eyes and moved no more.

...


	89. Blackfyre

**Griff**

Jon felt pride well up inside him whenever he laid eyes on the banners flying from the walls of Storm’s End. It felt like the first step towards justice, but he knew he shouldn’t allow himself to savor this moment too much.  It was just another stepping towards King’s Landing, the true price.

 _We have a realm to conquer and a King to crown_ , he thought as he entered his chamber.

Two week turns ago, they had taken the castle and had spent their sending out ravens to the lords and ladies of the realm, to inform them about the return of Rhaegar Targaryen’s son and heir. So far, a good dozen of houses had declared for their King, among them even some from the Riverlands, but that was no surprise. The Riverlords had always been loyal towards House Targaryen and then there were also the Lords of Dragonstone. A certain Aurane Waters had been quick to reply to their raven and had promised to bring more loyal lords to add additional strength to their cause. Of the Stormlords, most had joined Stannis on their campaign in the Reach. Only a certain Selwyn of Tarth had declared for them while the Reach had remained completely silent safe for Lord  Hightower, who had promised to send his son as an envoy to Storm’s End. It was a promising start, but Jon hoped that more lords would declare for his King as time went by. Then, there was also the matter of the Dornish. Jon knew that they were hoping for a match with his King, but Jon saw no value in such a marriage. It would be far more beneficial if his King were to wed another Lady.

 _Even the Stark girl would have made a better match than Arianne Martell_ , Jon thought as he looked over his maps, spread over the wooden table. He touched the wooden figurines and moved them over the map, imagining them as real soldiers, killing their enemies as they had done two weeks ago. It had been a true victory, but Connington couldn’t have done it without his King’s help, who had pulled off their plan without hardly any blunders.

 _He is a bit reckless,_ Rolly Duckfield had told Jon upon his return. _But a true King._

 _And he got hurt_ , Jon reminded himself and shuddered. _I cannot allow that to happen again. My Silver Prince would hunt me from his grave_.

Exhaling deeply, he took another look at the map. Soon, they would be marching to King's Landing and then their possible allegiance with House Mooton and Ryger might come handy. It made him wonder if Lord William would still recall Jon after all these years. He, Prince Rhaegar, Richard Lonmouth, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell had often been guests in his home as his younger brother Ser Myles Mooton had once served as Prince Rhaegar’s squire. Jon thought not, for there had been few who had loved him.  He had always been to sour-faced for most and some might have sensed that there was something wrong with him…

Yet, his greatest hope was to win House Tyrell to their side. Mace Tyrell had always been eager to wed his daughter to a Targaryen Prince, but now the girl was wed to Jaime Lannister, the bloody Kingslayer.

It was a disgrace.

“My lord,” Rolly Duckfield,’ voice called upon him after his quick entrance. He grinned and made a startling impression in his new armor, polished plate and a green cloak emblazoned with a white duck and a handful of silver stars, his new personal sigil. _House Duckfield_ , Jon reminded himself and couldn’t help but to frown. _A ridiculous name. It is a sad thing that my King has to depend on exiles and former Blackfyre supporters, but there is no other way, my Silver Prince._ “His Grace askes for your presence. The Dornish have arrived.”

Jon sighed and rose to his feet. “I am coming.”

When he entered the great hall, Jon found his King seated in Robert Baratheon’s former seat, a chair made of black stone. Above this chair the golden-and-black banner of House Baratheon had still hung weeks ago, but now he saw the red-and-black banner of House Targaryen. It was a sight that filled him with great satisfaction, but when he laid eyes on his King he felt even more pride.

His shoulder was bound with a silken linen cloth and he was carrying his arm in a sling. A cross bolt had hit him during the storm of the castle, but he had yet to hear a complaint from his King.

 _He does not look much like my Silver Prince_ , Jon thought. _But he has his endurance in spirit._

Jon couldn’t be any prouder of his King.

 _He is truly my son_ , he mused, but felt doubt creeping up inside him whenever his thoughts wandered back to Jon Snow. The boy had the long-face of the Starks and their plain brown hair, but he had Rhaegar’s dark eyes, his graceful nose and his full lips. It was undeniable, but Jon couldn’t allow himself to waver in this matter. He owed his King his loyalty, no matter how much he wished for Rhaegar’s sons to get along.

 _Forgive me_ , he asked of his Silver Prince. _Forgive me for failing you again._

“My Lord!” his King called out to him as he came to stand before his King, who was engrossed in a conversation with Arianne Martell. The girl wore a dream of red silk, her dark hair flowing freely down her shoulders. One could see her nipples protruding through her dress. It was a disgrace and caused him to clench his teeth. “We have waited for you to join us.

Jon lowered his head as he gazed at the Dornish and the hostage they had brought with them, Cersei Lannister’s bastard daughter. She must have once been a very pretty girl, but now her face was a scarred half-moon that would disgust any suitor from bedding her.

 _Why does the King allow her to leave her chamber,_ he wondered, but his mood turned worse when he noticed the presence of the Spider, dressed in a pink dress, the smell of his intense perfume filling his nose. It was a sickening mixture of sandlewood, cider and lavender.

The smell was enough to make him gag, but they had need of him. So much Jon knew.

“My Lord Varys,” Jon greeted politely, trying to hide his apprehension. “I didn’t expect such a quick return. I assume your investigations were fruitful?”

“Very,” he tittered and gave him a knowing smile. “And I have brought a gift for our King.”

“It’s beautiful,” his King added cheerfully, his features bright like that of a mischievous boy. “You won’t believe me if you see it, my Lord.”

“It truly is a miracle,” Oberyn Martell added, one of his annoying smiles playing on his lips. “See for yourself.”

Jon saw for himself when one of Varys’ personal guardsmen presented him with a common leather scabbard.

“See for yourself,” his King encouraged him as he rose from his seat and descended down the steps at Arianne Martell’s arm. “See for yourself.”

Jon felt as if he was part in some sort of odd mummery, but played along for the sake of his King.

Thus, he grabbed the pommel of the sword and pulled the blade from his leather sheath.

His breathing stopped when he saw the smoky patter that was so common for Valyrian steel.

“What?” he asked and brushed his hand over the rippling black steel. “What kind of sword is this?”

“Blackfyre,” Lord Varys replied with the sweetest of smiles. “The very sword with of Aegon the Conqueror.”

Jon Connington waved his gaze over the steel once more. There was no doubt. This was Valyrian steel, but that this couldn’t be Blackfyre. It had been lost…

“Where did you get this from, my Lord?” Lord Connington demanded louder than intended.

“My Lord,” his King said in a stunned voice and placed himself between the Spider and Jon. “What is the meaning of your hostile tone? I do not understand…”

“My King,” Jon tried to explain. “This sword had been lost for nearly hundreds of years. I am just questioning how a man like Lord Varys got hold of it.”

“A really good question,” Oberyn Martell added with a chuckle. “How did you acquire this sword?”

Lord Varys secretive smile told Jon that he would receive no answer to his question.

“I have my ways,” the Spider tittered and smiled at Aegon. “But Lord Connington is right. You shouldn’t thank me. You should thank Magister Illyrio. He was the one who found the sword.”

His King smiled, his hand still resting on Arianne Martell’s shoulder. It was a sight that displeased Jon even more than the presence of the sword.

 _If I am not careful thee girl will soon climb into my King’s bed_ , he knew, but was also aware how much of a liking the King had taken to his kin in the short amount of time they had resided here. Every day, he found them seated in front of the hearth, sharing sweet tales about their childhood. In these moments, his King became a child, listen eagerly to tales about his mother and family. It was a dangerous bound that was about to form here, but it was understandable.

 _The boy was always lonely_ , Jon knew. He had dire need of the companionship of other children, but it had to be done to keep him safe. _At, least that is what the Spider and his cheesemonger wanted me to believe._

In hindsight, Jon regretted his decision to go along with the Spider’s wishes.

 _I should have taken the boy and gone to Darry_ , _then Prince Viserys might still be alive and the Princess wouldn’t have been so hostile towards my King._

_Another failure of mine._

“My Lord,” his King’s voice called him back to the present. “What say you to Lord Varys’ generous gift?”

Jon knew he could not give his honest thoughts. He needed to choose a quiet moment when he was alone with his King.

“A generous gift indeed,” Jon declared and gave his King what he wanted to hear. “And a gift worthy of the Conqueror’s heir!”

His King beamed and pulled the blade free, waving it around like a boy a wooden stick.

“I always imagined Blackfyre more splendid,” he added in amusement. “But the rippling pattern is truly beautiful. It is the first time I had the honor to behold Valyrian steel.”

“Sometimes the greatest things are rather plain-looking,” Lord Varys added proudly. “But this sword is still what it is: Blackfyre.”

 _The same can be said about Rhaegar’s second son_ , Jon couldn’t help but to think. The boy was plain-looking like this sword, but there had been an edge to his dark eyes that had reminded Jon so much of Rhaegar that his heart had bled for days.

 _Nonsense_ , he reminded himself. _There is my King. My true King. Rhaegar’s seed and heir._

“Lord Varys speaks true,” he added unwillingly. “Beauty is not equal to strength.”

“Indeed,” his King agreed and his bluish eyes darted back to Cersei Lannister’s bastard daughter. She too had often kept his King’s company in the last days and as she was here it seemed his King had taken an odd liking to her. “Like our little hostage, here. My Lady Myrcella Baratheon.”

The girl’s green eyes lifted within the blink of a moment, a stunned expression taking hold of her scarred face. In that moment she looked nothing like her mother, the prideful lioness that paraded her bosom in front of his Silver Prince like one of the whores from Flea Bottom. The girl had something innocent about her. That made her even more dangerous, because it might rouse pity in his King. Pity he shouldn’t have.

“Your Grace,” the girl chirped and dropped a deep curtsy, her skirt fluttering around wildly as she moved. “I thank you for your compliment.”

“I mean it,” his King insisted firmly and graced the bastard girl with a soft smile. “They say my mother was stricken by her weak health, but carried herself with grace and pride. You are much the same, which is why I want to ask you a question?”

The girl cocked her head like a pretty bird.

“What question does his Grace wish to address to me?”

“An important question I have considered thoroughly over the last days,” his King explained. “My cousin told me you were once betrothed to her brother…Prince Trystane Martell. Is that true?”

The girl nodded her head in confirmation.

“I was betrothed to Trystane.”

“Well,” his King said and wetted his lips. “What would you say if I upheld the betrothal. Would that please you, my Lady?”

Hope washed over the girl’s scarred face while Jon could only blink his eyes in confusion.

“It would please me very much, your Grace,” the girl replied sweetly.

His King smiled triumphantly. “But you also know that my cousin is Prince of Dorne and that a Prince cannot marry a _common_ Lady? Isn’t that so?”

The girl’s green eyes narrowed in apprehension.

“That is so, your Grace, but sadly I am just a bastard. I know that now.”

“You are no bastard,” his King declared suddenly and drew closer, kneeling down in front of the girl, his hands touching her shoulders. “You are Princess Myrcella Baratheon, the heiress to the Stormlands and my cousin’s wife…that is if you are prepared to pay a certain price.”

The girl’s eyes were all glassy as she stared up at his King in disbelief, her small fingers fisting her golden skirt.

“A price,”  she stuttered. “Just name it…I would do everything for Trystane.”

His King smiled as he rose back to his feet, his sword still in hand.

“A small price,” he repeated and towered over the girl. He lifted his blade and grinned from one ear to the other. “I ask for you to kneel and accept me as your King.”

The girl nodded her head in understanding, hear golden lock fluttering around her face.

“I am already kneeling, your Grace,” she said and lowered her head. “And I do not know the formalities of giving one’s vows of loyalty to a King, but this is what I can give you: I, Princess Myrcella Baratheon, declare my ever-lasting loyalty to you, King Aegon the Sixth of his Name.”

“A good vow,” he said and lowered his blade towards he blade’s face. “And now seal your oath with a kiss, my Lady.”

The glanced around suspiciously, before she lowered her lips towards the blade and kissed it.

Jon disapproved of his King’s decision, but he couldn’t deny the kingly impression he made in that moment.

 _Perhaps I misjudged him_ , he thought and smiled when his King shifted his attention back to Jon.

“What say you, my Lord?”

“A good decision…,” he was about to reply, but his King interrupted him after he had quickly shoved the blade back into its sheath.

“There are more good news to be had!” he declared and his bluish eyes darted to Princess Arianne, whose’ crimson lips were curled in a satisfied smile. “I shall soon be wed…my Lord Hand. Then, we shall have the Dornish spears and march we for King’s Landing.”

Jon didn’t believe his ears.

“Your Grace…,” he said and searched his face. “Isn’t that a bit hasty? We haven’t even won this war…we ought to…,” was about to continue, but Oberyn Martell placed himself between his King and Jon.

In that moment, felt the urge to strangle the man in front of him.

Only his self-control kept him from doing so.

“You conquered a castle that is deemed without equal…What better occasion to celebrate a wedding?”

“It is not that,” Jon Connington said, no longer wanting to hide away. He needed to keep his King from committing another mistake. “But the people in Westeros will ask why his kin wouldn’t support him without such a marriage! People might  doubt your legitimacy!”

In the blink of a moment, his King’s demeanor had changed to an almost sullen expression.

“I heard you, my Lord,” his King replied unhappily and took the Princess’ hand in his own. “But I have made my choice in this matter. There is no other legitimate bride for me to consider. My Aunt is my kin, but she is barren. Lady Margaery is wed to the Kingslayer and with child. I am a patient man, but I have no use for damaged goods. I deserve a Princess and we have no time to waste. Stannis will hear of this and then he might come for us. We will wed on the morrow and then we will march upon King’s Landing.”

By the iron tone in his King’s voice knew that he couldn’t protest without losing his favor.

Thus, he clenched his teeth and lowered his head in defeat.

“I approve of your decision, your Grace.”

…


	90. Don't Look Back

**Daenerys**

Three years ago, she had left Pentos through these burned gates.  Back then, she had only been a little girl of ten and three, a puppet in her brothers plans to retake the Iron Throne. Now, she had returned, with her own army and two of her dragons, that were now flying above her heard, their beautiful song echoing over the walls houses of Pentos.

The Battle for Pentos had been rather brief nor had the inhabitants of the city put up much of a fight. Dany hadn’t even used her Unsullied.

Instead, she and Jon had mounted their dragons and had burned the gates to cinder. Even now, one could see the scorch marks on the walls, but it was nothing compared to the destruction of Volantis, where the slaves had risen up against their Masters and had butchered them in their beds. Nothing of the sort had happened here.

After they had burned the gates, Dany had landed atop the city walls and had spoken to the citizens, demanding the surrender of their leaders. She had promised them mercy and that they would be allowed to keep their belongings, as long as they are willing to keep the peace.

On the next day, when the sun was casting the city walls in a bloody glimmer, the merchant princes had surrendered themselves to Dany, or better said the Tattered Prince, who had accepted their vows of fealty and had taken the head of those that had once wanted to see him dead, though the majority of them had long past away in his long years in exile.

The only thorn in this unquestionable victory had been that they had found Magister Illyrio’s manse empty. Not only the magister himself, all his slaves and servants had supposedly been sold off two moons ago, before the magister had boarded a ship to travel to Westeros.

 _To join my supposed nephew_ , she knew and clenched her teeth as she picked a grape from the plate in from of her. The fruit tasted bitter, like the victory they had won. Magister Illyrio had been the only one who could have answered Dany’s many questions regarding her _supposed_ nephew.

Dany spit the core into her hand and dropped it in the blow, her other hand resting on her swollen belly. In Volantis she had consulted a midwife, who had deduced that her child would be born in three moons, but later she had also allowed Marwyn to take a another look at her, who had concluded that her child would most likely be born in two moons. That had been a week ago and the travel over the Narrow Sea would most likely take another moon. Thus, she would be fat with child when she arrived in Westeros, when she wanted to do nothing more than to mount Drogon and put an end to the man that had  enslaved her poor child with his _cursed_ horn.

Victarion Greyjoy was his name, but strangely it was the thought of his brother, this Euron Greyjoy, that filled her with even more dread. Moqorro had warned her more than once of this man and had told her that a man who had supposedly sailed to Old Valyria could not have retained his sanity.

 _I will kill him either way_ , Dany knew and noticed that Jon was staring at her. _He and his brother will rue the day they stole my child._

He was seated next to her, Ghost’s large head resting on the table beside him. Ser Barristan was looming above him, his shoulders devoid of his white cloak, but that was no surprise. It was too hot and humid in this city. In Volantis they had at least been able to enjoy a cool breeze.

Mayhaps it was also Moqorro’s presence that brought so much warmth. At times, Dany thought crimson robes might catch fire at any moment. He was even fonder of fire than Dany and often spent hours watching the flames.

He claimed to see the future, but whenever Dany asked him about it, he told her that the future that lay ahead of them was as clouded as a stormy sky.

Uncertain predictions like these filled her with fear and was the reason she had never dared to ask him about her child. The Dosh Khaleen had been sure that Rhaego would be the Stallion, but that had been another lie…

Dany only wanted a healthy child, but she knew that there was some truth to these prophecies, even though Jon liked to deny it. Ever since, she had hatched her dragons from stone, she had asked herself why it had been her who had managed to do what her ancestors had failed to do for nearly a century.

 _Moqorro and his Red Priests think me Azor Ahai_ , she knew and while she disliked this notion, she couldn’t help but to wonder about all these strange connections: her brother’s prophecy, Azor Ahai, the Others, her dragons and the Promised Prince…

All of this couldn’t just be a mere coincidence.

“Daenerys,” Jon said and touched her shoulder. “ Did you hear?”

Dany nodded her head. She had been half-listening to Ser Jorah’s numbers about the rations they would need to cross the Narrow Sea and to finally go _home_ , to Dragonstone, the place of her birth.

“I heard you,” Dany confirmed with heavy sigh and leaned forward. Her pregnancy made her feel lazy and tired. At times, she just wanted to sleep. When she had been carrying Rhaego she hadn’t felt that way, but perhaps that was a good thing. With Rhaego everything had gone wrong. “House Celtigar, House Velaryon and House Sunglass could prove valuable allies in our quest for the Iron Throne. They are of Valyrian blood, aren’t they?”

“Indeed,” Archmaester Marwyn confirmed. “Their ancestry is as old as that of House Targaryen. There is a reason why Aenys Targaryen wed Lady Alyssa Velaryon.”

Dany nodded her head and forced a smile over her lips. She had yet to get used to the man’s constant presence. His history with Mirri irked her, though he seemed a genial, albeit a little egocentric man.

“But that won’t be enough,” Ser Barristan said. “Especially not with the Tyrells in allegiance with the Lannisters. And Dorne…I think it is very likely that they will ally with Prince Aegon. Magister Illyrio’s absence is proof of that.”

“How so?” Jon asked. “Mayhaps this Illyrio simply feared for his life and ran away , the coward he is.”

“Perhaps or perhaps not,” Dany agreed and pushed herself back to her feet. She gave Ser Jorah an approving nod and patted Greyworm’s shoulder. “But we don’t have enough time to wreck our brain about _this_ man. We have to sail before the winds turn. At least, that is what my Admiral is telling me. Whatever we will find in Westeros, I am sure it will be troubling  enough with or without Magister Illyrio there. As for allegiances…We have already spoken about that. We shall try to approach Robb Stark.”

Jon was by then at her side. “I cannot guarantee that Robb will support us, but I know he will listen to whatever I have to say. And if not, the dragons would be enough to make him reconsider his view.”

Dany had heard the displeasure in his voice when he had said this.

 _He would never betray me_ , Dany knew and felt the urge to smile when she felt her child’s kick. _He would have taken me with or without my child. Drogo had been my sun and stars, but he is my love and heart._

“I am sure he will listen to you,” Dany assured him and squeezed his hand. “Now, let us all retire. The new Prince of Pentos expects us to attend to his grand feast.”

With these words, Dany returned to the capable hands of her handmaids. Irri helped her bath while Jhiqui recounted a tale from her childhood.  She was a good storyteller, but nothing compared to the little girl from Naath that Dany had left in Meereen.  Thinking of her two cities, made her heart ache with guilt. Her goal had always been to return home to Westeros and to retake her father’s crown, but she might have longer in Slaver’s Bay, had this Victarion not stolen her sweet child.

 _One day I shall return_ , she promised and stepped out of the hot bath. She was soaked from head to toe, her shoulder-length silver hair sticking to her cheek and neck. Jhiqui was quick to offer her a soft towel and braided her hair before fastening the silver bells into her locks.

When she was done, Irri powdered her face and painted her lips red before helping her put on a violet robe with billowing sleeves, held together by a gilded belt. It hid her state well enough, but it had long stopped being a secret.

It made her wonder what Aegon and Prince Quentyn would think of her? Would they call her a liar and claim that she pretended to be ‘barren’? She certainly wouldn’t put it past Aegon, given that he had tried to steal her dragon, but Prince Quentyn had been a plain, but pleasant young man.

 _Curse them_ , Dany thought. She smiled when she heard the soft tingling of her bells and felt the movement of her child. _I shan’t apologize._

Smiling, she thanked Irri and Jhiqui with a kiss on their cheeks and allowed them to dress while she went to seek out her other female companions, namely Lady Lyanna and Lady Sansa.

Lady Lyanna hadn’t put any effort in changing her attire. She still wore the same blue dress she had worn throughout their travel. Only her brown hair had grown and was now reaching below her shoulder blades. At times, she braided it, but most of the time it just fell freely wherever it pleased. Nonetheless, she was still a beautiful woman, but nothing compared to Lady Sansa.

At times Dany was even a little jealous of the girl, because these days she often felt like an elephant, though Jon assured her that he would tell her when she was _really_ starting to look like one.

Jon had been jesting and she had whacked him over the head for it, but it had been a while that they had shared a bed. The last time, had been in Volantis, almost too moons ago, but then Dany and Jon had been very occupied. They had to bury their Grand-Uncle, to conduct negotiations with the Sealord and to plan for the travel across the Narrow Sea. All this had taken them weeks of preparing and had eaten up one quarter of their coin, though the Sealord had promised them quick access to the  vaults of House Targaryen once they arrived in Dragonstone. He had even offered to send an envoy to make it official.

Dany had thanked him for it, but even so she couldn’t bring herself to fully trust the Sealord. He might just play along and wait how her conquest would go and then, when she was out of the picture, he might just try to take Volantis and the rest of the former Slaver Cities for his own. And while she doubted he would treat the freedmen as the Masters had done, she also couldn’t bring herself to trust these Braavosi. Without her Grand-Uncle, the Iron Bank might have not even thought of contacting her, despite their rather passionate hatred for slavery.

What was done was done, she knew and smiled when Lady Sansa’s blue eyes met hers. She wore a long blue robe, fastened with a silver pin on each shoulder. Her hair was braided and covered with a delicate hairnet decorated with pearls.

“The dress suits you,” Dany offered politely. The girl had always been polite towards her, but there was still some distance between them that Dany wished to bridge. Lady Sansa and Jon might not be particularly close, but she was still his sister, something Dany had never had. “Well, I think even a sack would suit you.”

Lady Sansa smiled. “And I must thank you for giving it to me.”

“No need,” Dany replied and shifted her attention to Lady Lyanna. “We should go. The new Prince of Pentos expects us at a grand feast, which will probably the last one in a long while.”

Lady Lyanna, who had grown even grimmer since they had arrived in Pentos, shook her head.

“I would prefer to stay here,” she explained. “I am not in the mood for festivities and Lord Tyrion has been vomiting all evening. He has been kissing his bottle too often these days.”

Dany had noticed this too, who had admitted himself that he liked to enjoy a cup of wine.

Yet, what really surprised her was Lady Lyanna’s words had implied.

“I wasn’t aware that you two are friends?”

“We were travelling companions. We are similar.”

Dany couldn’t help but to wrinkle her brows in confusion. By looks, Lord Tyrion and Lady Lyanna, couldn’t be more different.

“How so?”

“We are both broken.”

 _We are all broken_ , Dany wanted to add, but didn’t want to force her good-sister to attend to this feast when she was more comfortable being here.

“I am sure Lady Sansa and I can entertain the new Prince on our own,” Dany assured her and waved her hand at Lady Sansa. “Shall we go?”

“Of course,” Lady Sansa replied hesitatingly and followed after her.

 Out in the gardens, Jon was already waiting for her in company of Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah. He had changed into a grey tunic, black breeches, his riding boots and his crimson cloak, his usual colors, but his hair was properly brushed and he smelled much better than usual. It was a mixture of sandlewood and lemon, a smell that appealed to her. She wondered if someone told him to put it on.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her with a hesitant smile and offered his arm. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I am well,” Dany confirmed and took his arm. “My mind was just straying.”

The feast was held in the largest manse of the city, a three-storied building with a gilded rooftop, large gardens and a pool of water that reminded Dany of the Great Pyramid in Meereen.

The Tattered Prince spared no expenses and all kinds of dishes were laid out for them: peacock stuffed with all kinds of exotic fruits, roasted meat, cooked and covered with honey and spices, sweet milk and wine, puppies on sticks, honey fingers, smoked pig flesh, vegetables doused in butter sauce, ostrich eggs and all kinds of fruits from the nearby sea: fresh crabs, mussels and lobster were among them.

As the new ruling Prince of the city, the Tattered Prince was seated at the high table, his once tattered robes exchanged with striped rope of silver and gold and a crimson cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He looked almost like a different man, as he was smiling and laughing with his companions.

Dany couldn’t really share his delight. She felt still disappointed that they hadn’t been able to find Illyrio.

Even so, she tried her best to enjoy herself, for she had need of the sellswords’ help. He had promised her rations from the city, ships and three-thousand men that would accompany her to Westeros. He himself couldn’t come, as he had to take care of _his_ city, but he had put his men under the command of his former second-in-command, a grim man who seemed promising enough.

 _All he needs to do is fight and win_ , she knew. _But even the Tattered Prince’s fearsome warriors are nothing compared to the Golden Company._

Thinking of them, made resentment stir up inside her. It also made her wonder whether her _supposed_ nephew had already taken the throne he desired and how she would react to her return to King’s Landing. Killing him was still something she  feared, but then it might become necessary.

Truly, all could have been so easy, but fate had a way to piss in her broth. Yet, she feared not for herself, but for her child.

Many dangers lay ahead and she didn’t know if she would be able to fight them all.

“You should drink,” Jon prodded and put the cup with milk in front of her nose. “And eat something.”

Dany nodded her head in acknowledgement and brought the cup to her lips. It tasted good, but these days her taste ranged from salty to sweet. They also changed like the seasons.

When she had emptied the cup she took a bite from the peacock flesh, all soft and white like snow. The sauce made from butter and whipped cream was even better, but a heartbeat later she lost her taste for it and pushed the plate aside.

She didn’t know why, but she felt as if she was the only one who wasn’t particularly happy.

Ser Jorah was enjoying a cup of wine in company of Ser Barristan, to whom he had finally warmed up to in the last weeks, Jon was feeding Ghost with pieces of chicken, her two handmaids were hopping around in company of her Bloodriders, who didn’t appear at all out of place among this colorful company of sellswords, merchants and inhabitants of the city. One of them had even pulled out a small lute that was producing lovely sound. The Red Priest, like Lyanna and Lord Tyrion, had stayed behind and Marwyn the Mage was holding some heated discussion in three different languages at once. Even Dany, who was familiar with a wide range of dialects, couldn’t follow the man’s rattling speech. Only the quick movements of his hands gave some indications of what he was talking about.

“You are eating like a bird,” Jon’s remarked. “Are you sick?”

It was the sixth time he had asked her that now and it was getting bothersome. In fact, Jon entire attitude towards her had changed in the last weeks. He was constantly watching her like a hawk. At times, she wondered if he would accompany her to the privy.

“And you should stop feeding Ghost with so much chicken,” she said in return and pointed at the massive wolf, whose head was still resting on the table. “He is going to get lazy.”

Ghost gave a whine before he leaned forward and sniffed on Jon’s burned hand.

“Daenerys speaks true, boy,” he told the wolf and brushed his hand over his head. “You have been greedy. Three chickens are enough.”

Ghost blatantly ignored him and sniffed once more on his hand, but received nothing but a shake of his head.

“I said enough,” Jon said the wolf, but moved on to Sansa, his wet nose brushing over her shoulder.

Lady Sansa giggled and was eying the wolf with wide eyes.

“Do you want some cream cake?” she asked and showed him her plate covered with small cakes topped with whipped cream and cherries. “Lady liked this kind of food.”

Ghost sniffed at it for a brief moment, but then he averted his head and walked away.

Sansa shook her head. “Well, more for me.”

Dany laughed and Jon watched his wolf go.

“I think he is not looking forward to the sea travel,” Jon explained and touched her hand beneath the table. “He had hated it the first time and had disliked it even more when we sailed from Volantis to Pentos.”

Dany recalled and felt bad for Ghost. She herself had felt hardly any discomfort. Sea travel was as familiar to her as flying on her dragon.

“Not everyone is born to be on a ship,” she said to Jon and brought the cup back to her lisp, her eyes darting to the Tattered Prince, who was surrounded by those that had willingly accepted him as their new Prince. The others were all left as a feast for the crows, their heads resting atop the city walls. “Viserys was much the same. He was constantly puking his guts out. Once, I told him that I wanted to be sailor and he called me weak and stupid.”

Jon neither smiled nor moved. “At times, I wish I was the one who killed him.”

Dany couldn’t share his opinion on that matter. Viserys had been cruel and vicious, but she felt at times that she shouldn’t have killed him.

She could have just told Drogo to send him away, but knowing Viserys he might have just ended up killing himself on the way back to Pentos.

“No need for that,” she told him and decided it was time to interrupt the Tattered Prince’s avid conversation. There were some questions that were plaguing her. “Forgive me, my lords, but there is a matter that I wish to speak about. It concerns Magister Illyrio Mopatis.”

“Illyrio is gone,” said one of the six remaining merchants. He was tall and thin, his nose formed like the beak of a hawk. ”He sailed home.”

“I am aware of that,” Dany replied thoughtfully. “But I wondered if you could tell me more about him. You all knew him well, didn’t you?”

“He is a good merchant,” added another one, a fat man with a balding head. “And very fat, but he was supposedly a capable swordfighter in his youth. Many called him the second-best sword in Braavos.”

Dany gave him a look of utter disbelief. “Sword of Braavos? Truly?”

“Truly,” the youngest of the three added. He was a bit older than thirty, his hair dark and his eyes green as the sea. ”He was also wed to one of the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on. Serra was her name.”

“Serra,” Jon repeated and brought his cup to his lips. Dany had told him about Illyrio’s wife. “She had silver hair and purple eyes, didn’t she?”

“Aye,” the young man said dreamily. “And she had a generous bosom. Yet, the most beautiful about her was her smile. When Serra smiled it was as if the sun had come down from the heaven to sit at your table.”

“She was also a pillow girl,” the Tattered Prince said and stroked his beard. “I told you before, your Grace. It was a great scandal when a man of his standing wed a slave girl.”

“True,” added the thin one. “But Illyrio loved that girl. It was clear by the way he treated her and that babe of hers.”

“Babe?” Jon asked suddenly, his dark eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t describe. “What babe?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Dany said and waved her hand at the Tattered Prince. “Well, this Serra birthed Illyrio a son. She and the boy perished from a fever.”

“That is what they say,” The fat man added softly as he leaned forward. The smell of perfume filled Dany’s nostrils in that moment. “But some swear that he sent the babe away, because he couldn’t bare to look at him.”

“How old was _this_ boy, if I may ask?” Jon inquired and started to tap his finger on the table.

“He must count around eighteen namedays,” the thin man said. ”I am not quite sure.”

“Whatever it is worth,” the Tattered Prince said. “Illyrio is gone and I will make sure that it stays that way forever.”

The other men laughed, but Dany noticed that not all of them were as enthusiastic as they appeared on the first glance. That was another thing she had learned in Meereen. To read the people around her.

“I shall make sure of it too,” Jon declared. “This Magister will pay for what he did.”

Dany knew what he was referring to, but she preferred not to speak about the past. She only wanted to look into the future.

_If I look back I am lost._

Thinking as she was about the past, a sudden thought entered her mind. It was about the Spider and Illyrio and how everything was connected.

She wanted to slap herself for not speaking about it sooner.

“You all knew Magister Illyrio, but what about his friends? Have you ever heard of _his_ friend, my father’s former advisor, the Spider?”

“I have met him,” the fat man said. “Back then, I didn’t know who he was. I only found out later that the was the Magister’s friend. I asked Illyrio about him one day, but he said not much. All I know is this: Lord Varys was once a slave and his former master sold him to a warlock. Given that he lacks the pieces every man can call his own, I think it is quite clear what happened to him, but afterwards he somehow ended up in Magister Illyrio’s service. I think that was more than twenty years ago.”

“A long time,” Jon summed up. “And not long before he entered into your father’s service.”

Dany was surprised that Jon knew this. “Who told you that?”

“Tyrion,” Jon said and Dany sighed. She shouldn’t have been surprised by that answer. “They say your father’s rot began with him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Dany replied and gritted her teeth when the kick of her babe proved rather unpleasant. It felt as if her babe had felt her discomfort.” He was the one who convinced my brother to marry me to Khal Drogo. As you said before, he will pay for that.”

“I cannot say that I will be sad about Illyrio’s loss,” the Tattered Prince said solemnly. “Braavos never liked it when laws are broken and Illyrio held some queer love for pleasure girls from Lys. Well, the times have changed. Slavery is becoming obsolete and Lys and the other Free Cities will have to turn to another business.”

“That won’t be as easy as you think,” said the fat man. “They will probably wage another war before that come to pass.”

“A war I will gladly fight once I have re-taken my father’s crown,” Dany assured them and felt the sudden urge to go out to the beach to enjoy some fresh air. “This I can promise you, my friends. On my honor as a Targaryen.”

Then, she squeezed Jon’s hand under the table and smiled. ”But now I feel that it is time for my dire rest. I am a little exhausted.”

They bid her farewell, but when Jon wanted to call for their companions, Dany pulled him out of the door.

“Let them enjoy themselves,” she told him and smiled. “I want to show you something.”

Jon returned her smile and squeezed her hand.

“Let us go.”

Dany led him out of the mansion, towards the beach, where the waves were crashing softly against the black shore.

The stars danced on the black waves and a fat moon was laughing down on them.

There was no one there, only the silence. It was as silent as it had been three years ago when Viserys had sold her to Khal Drogo.

She had loved him once or at least she had believed that for a  time, but now she knew the truth.

Drogo had just used her, like Viserys had used her.  He had also raped and hurt her, just as Viserys had hurt and mistreated her.

Yet, she couldn’t tell that to Jon. It would only anger him.

“We should take a bath,” Dany told him with a smile and started to pull on the bindings of her dress. “I am sweating like a pig.”

Jon smiled and wrapped her hands around her waist, as she continued to pull off her clothing.

“Do you think that is wise?”

“I was still riding a horse while I was carrying Rhaego,” she informed him and pulled the dress over her head. “A little bit of water won’t kill. Now get undressed.”

Jon did as she had asked of him while Dany pulled off her smallclothes.

When he was done, he leaned closer and brushed one hand through her loose braid of hair, the silver bells tinkling softly as she moved her head.

His other hand was brushing over her swollen belly. “Who goes first?”

She heard the teasing in his voice and smiled.

“I will go,” she told him. “Don’t come until I call for you.”

He chuckled, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes.

“As you wish.”

Thus, she stepped into the water. The water was pleasantly cold, but that mattered little. It was too hot in this place and a little refreshment helped to calm her fears.

When she re-emerged from the waves, she brushed her strands of gold and silver out of her face and waved her hand at Jon.

Jon didn’t hesitate to walk into her arms, kissed her fiercely and touched her wherever he could reach.

He was inside her just as quickly, the crushing sound of the waves the only sound besides their gasps of pleasures.

They did not dress at once, but remained sitting beside the shore, the waves touching her feet in regular intervals.

Eventually, Dany pulled her cloak over her shoulder and pulled her knees against her chest.

Jon made no attempt to move, lying sprawled on his cloak.

In that moment, she noticed the presence of her children, two large shadows blinding out the moonlight, before disappearing again.

“They seem anxious,” Jon remarked thoughtfully.

“They miss Viserion,” Dany said in return. “I don’t even want to think what this Ironborn man is doing to him.”

“Nothing good…that is for sure,” Jon said. “As you said, I doubt anything good will await us in Westeros. Sometimes, I just want to mount Rhaegal and fly far away.”

“I spent my entire life without a home,” Dany told him. “And I want Westeros to be my new home. I also can't leave the throne to this Lord Varys and his puppet, this _supposed_ nephew of mine."

“I know,” Jon said and rolled to the side, reaching for his clothing. Then, he rose to his feet, pulled on his breeches, faded tunic and his polished boots. “I know that, but I do not wish to speak to my Uncle. I fear I will only hate him more for it.”

“You spoke to your mother,” Dany argued and touched his arm after she had picked up her dress. “It can’t be that bad. For all his failures, he still loved you enough to protect you and give you a home. I only had Viserys….and once the house with the red door.”

Jon chuckled at that. There was no mockery in it, only sadness.

“Red doors…,” he said. “I have never seen one of those.”

“You will,” she promised him. “My first law as Queen will be as such: all doors must be painted red.”

Jon laughed and shook his head. He knew she was just jesting.

“Better keep these ideas to yourself. Not everyone likes red doors,” he said and waited until she had dresses, before offering his hand to her. “Well, I won’t mind them…Let’s go home.”

Dany smiled warmly and took his hand. “Let’s go home.”

…


	91. Hardhome

**Robb**

**Robb**

A starless sky spread over their heads, as they glided through the waves. The water was a murky grey color, nearly as grey as the sharp cliff sprawling along the shore. There, beneath the cliff were numerous caves carved into the stone. It were the only settlements of worth, but everywhere Robb looked he saw cookfires rising into the sky and the bay crawling with humans, giants and mammoths alike. It were almost too many people for this small settlement, but Mance had told him that he had no other choice sent them here. Besides, the Shadow Tower, Eastwatch and Castle Black most of the castles were in ruins and could never hold as many people as here.

 _That is why we need to find an arrangement_ , Robb thought and rubbed his shoulders against the cold. He had put on thick furs over his boiled-leather armor and his head was covered with a furred cap that had been gifted to him by Mance’s wife. _Dalla_ , he recalled and angled his head to look at said woman’s sister. Val was her name and she was either ignoring him or frowning at him. That she had come along didn’t surprise him at all, but the sheer amount of women among the Wildlings was astounding. Every third of Mance’s warriors were female, some of them younger than Robb and some of them older than his mother. It was a queer sight.

 _You sound almost like a man from the south_ , Robb thought and smiled when Greywind stirred from his sleep. Unlike Robb and the rest of his companions, the wolf rarely complained about the cold, though he was strangely restless these days. At times, Robb wondered if Greywind could sense the enemy lurking somewhere in this frozen landscape.

“Gods be good!” the Greatjon Umber grumbled as his gaze wandered over the crowded town. “These must be thousands of them…a nightmare come true.”

“How do they even managed to live like that?” Lord Karstark asked, white mist rising from his mouth like smoke. He wore a black pelt and his face was covered with a grey shawl, which he had pulled down to get a proper look at the shore. “This place is barely bigger than Mole’s town!”

“There is no better way to keep warm, only fucking’s better. You could ask one of the spearweves to keep you warm Lord Kneeler, but they would probably skewer you with a spear,” Tormund Giantsbane remarked. He towered over Robb by at least half half a head and even the proud Greatjon seemed wary of him. Lord Wull and Lord Norrey simply eyed them with mistrust, standing so close together that one could assume they might start kissing at any moment. Lady Alysanne Mormont was the only woman among these hard men, but didn’t seem bothered by their presence.

“No wonder there are so many of you, Wildling,” the Greatjon mocked. “Mayhaps your lot should spend less time fucking than and more time tending to your own business.”

“Our own business?” Val asked with growing annoyance. She was dressed completely in white, her blond hair tightly braided and wound around her head. Most of her head was also covered with a white fur cap and she wore a grey shawl which she occasionally pulled down to reveal her pair of pink lips. Now was such a moment. “What are you trying to say, Lord Kneeler?”

“That your lot ought to keep to your lands and leave us at peace!” the Greatjon replied without hesitation. “Stop stealing our corn, women and children. My kin has also been taken by one of your ilk!”

“And your people hunt us like animals,” Val replied icily. “At least, our women have some sort of dignity. Yours are nothing but decoration and necessary for breeding. Do you even enjoy fucking them, Lord Kneeler?”

Robb would have laughed if the Greatjon’s face hadn’t changed to the color of a lobster.

“My Lord Umber,” Robb said carefully and touched the Greatjon’s shoulder. “What Val is trying to say is that the Wildlings have somewhat more lenient views on their womenfolk than we and I do not think they are necessarily bad.”

The Smalljon gave him a stunned look, puffs of his hot air meeting Robb’s face.

“You agree with her, Lord Stark?”

“Not in all points, but it is worth thinking about, isn’t it? We always complain that we don’t have enough men. Well, if women would take up arms too, we wouldn’t have that problem. And Lady Mormont over there is the best example of being able to do both: she birthed four daughters and knows how to swing her axe as well as any man.”

The Greatjon looked over at Lady Alysanne Mormont and stroked his beard, as if he was pondering Robb’s word.

“I suppose so, my Lord,” he grumbled at last and sat back down to sharpen his sword.

Lord Karstark gave Robb disgusted look and sat down beside him.

“Who would want to fuck such ugly women anyway,” he had muttered to himself in passing and Val had thrown him an icy look.

“Tensions are running high,” Mance Ryder said later, as he led Robb to the prow of the ship to get a better view at the bay. The paddles rose and dipped in a steady motion, white spray splashing unto deck and wetting Robb’s cloak. Greywind ruffled his fur and gave a loud yelp, before he joined Robb’s side.  “I must ask you to keep your men calm or this might end in bloodshed. The leader of these people is no other than Rattleshirt. He hates all Northmen and will tell some very discourteous things.”

“I see,” Robb said. When he looked around he noticed the Thenn men behind them, who were watching his direwolf with interest. “I shall try my best, but the Smalljon is a hot-tempered man. Lord Wull and Lord Norrey think the only good Wildlings are dead ones.”

Mance Ryder gave a rumbling laugh and narrowed his dark eyes against the fresh snowflakes melting away on his hair and face.

“Most of my people would say the same about your kind,” he said. “But sadly, that would only add more men to the enemy’s army.”

Robb sucked in a deep breath. It had been hard enough to convince his men to come here, but now that they were here, doubts were beginning to ache at him. Could the Wildlings have fooled his father? Were they running right into a trap?

 _No_ ,  Robb thought. _If they wanted to kill us they could have done it a long time ago. They clearly want our help, but that doesn’t mean we can trust them._

“My father told me little about the enemy,” Robb said, not quite knowing where to begin. “What do they look like? Are they like humans?”

“A little bit,” Mance replied. “But it is hard to describe them. Even those who claim to have seen them usually have not time to study them closely. They certainly have a human shape, four legs and all, but their body is made of ice and their eyes are as blue as frost. They are all male or at least that is what they look like. Some have long white hair like a crone and they carry weapons made of ice. Some also ride on different kinds of mounts.”

“Mounts?” Robb asked in shock. “What kind of mounts are you referring to?”

“Dead horses, elks, bears, mammoths and some of them…some of them ride ice spiders,” Mance Ryder continued and angled his head to look at Robb. “But that is not the worst about them.”

“Common weapons like these are of no use,” Mance Ryder explained and pulled out his dagger made of iron. Then, he slipped the dagger back into its sheath and pulled out another, a rather strange-looking one. The blade was made of a black material, whose rippling pattern reminded Robb of Valyrian Steel. “But this one can kill them.”

“What kind of material is it made from?” Robb asked as he brushed his hand over the blade. “Do you have a name for it?”

“We call it frozen fire,” Mance Ryder explained with a smile and handed the dagger to Robb. “Here, take it. You will have need of it, Lord Stark. I shall ask my people to arm each of your Lords with such a weapon. Sadly, we have not enough to arm all of your people. We also have need of them ourselves and finding them is a difficult endeavor.”

“How did you find these weapons?”

“We had to venture deep into the North. There, hidden behind ice and snow you will find graves that belonged to the First Men and sometimes Children of the Forest. In most of these graves we found at least one of these. At first, we didn’t know what to make of them, but one of my men managed to kill one of the Others with this kind of weapon. That is how we found out. Sadly, we know little else.”

“And how many do you have?”

“Perhaps two-thousand and a few hundred,” Mance explained. “But I wouldn’t put all too much trust in such numbers. My people are not good with sums and most do not even know how to write their bloody names. We will have to make do with what we have. Luckily, that is not their only weakness.”

“Another weakness?” Robb asked.

“Fire,” Mance Ryder explained. “While the Others are vulnerable to frozen fire their servants can be harmed by common fire. When we venture further north will have to bring plenty of split and fish-oil to keep our torches burning. It will be our best protection, my Lord.”

“It seems they don’t like the warmth,” Robb said and nodded his head in agreement. “I suppose that makes sense, given that they are made from ice.”

“They don’t like the sun either,” Mance said and crossed his arms in front of him. “Sadly, there is not even a glimpse of sunlight to be seen these days. _Winter is coming_ , as the Starks like to say.”

“Indeed,” Robb confirmed and exhaled deeply as they reached the shore. The anchor was lowered the railing and the ship hands followed suit and were eagerly helped by the men at the shore. “ _Winter is coming_.”

Robb had remained standing at the prow of the ship, Greywind standing guard beside him, as he observed the ship that belonged to the Night’s Watch, his father’s ship.

As promised, Mance Ryder had allowed the surviving members of the Night’s Watch to go free and had put them under his father’s command. Most of them were younglings that had no intention to speak out against his father and those that had remained stubborn had been killed.

Now the Night’s Watch consisted of not more than fifty men. It was a true shame, but Robb was glad that Jon had left before he could get harmed. He had no doubt that his father would have died if he hadn’t been the former Lord of Winterfell.

As they stepped from the ship, he saw his father coming their way, his grey eyes weary and the men following as anxious as a maid before her wedding bed.

“Lord Stark,” the Smalljon greeted almost cheerfully when he laid eyes on his father. “It is good to see you hale, my Lord.”

“And you, my Lord Umber,” his father said, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. “All of you.”

The others followed suit to give their former lord words of encouragement or to voice their displeasure of being here, but his father remained firm in his decision and stood behind Robb.

“I know it is hard for you to trust the Free Folk, my Lords and Lady,” his father told Lord Umber, Lord Norrey, Lord Flint, Lord Karstark and Lord Lady Mormont. All of them had brought a good hundred men and they looked equally unhappy to be here. Many had complained about the cold, but even more of them were afraid of the enemy, the Wildlings.

Most of these Wildlings were women, children and old people, but all of them were armed or carried torches to lighten their way. Children waved with their arms, women hopped into the arms of their men and old women kissed their children’s cheeks.

Seeing such a display of affection playing, made it all the harder for him to remain cold towards these people. It was easy to hate the fearsome barbarians from old Nan’s stories, but it was hard to hate women and children

 _Am I too soft_ , Robb wondered not for the first time. He had betrayed Tywin Lannister without a second thought and had done what was necessary to win, but now he felt like a young boy again and was uncertain what to do. _Mayhaps I am still nothing more than a green boy._

“Rattleshirt is coming,” Val said beside him, her gaze flickering from Robb to his father and then back to Mance. “I can smell his dogs.”

As if conjured by some spell, the dog’s barking reached his ears and a heartbeat later a horde of such beasts came rushing long the shored, followed by a good dozen of men seated on furred horses. The dog’s barking roused Greywind’s temper and Robb had a hard time holding him back.

“Keep your ill-bred dogs away, Rattleshirt!” Mance Ryder shouted at the man seated on the largest of the horses. He was a small man with a knobby chin, thin mustache and pinched cheeks. His eyebrows joined over the bridge of his nose and he had a widow’s peak and dark hair. Especially, his armor was queer to look upon. His helmet was the broken skull of a giant beast and his arms were covered with bear claws sewn to boiled leather and whenever he moved the bones made a strange rattling sound. “And from my guests.”

“Guests?” Rattleshirt asked, his voice strained from the cold wind. He eyed Robb, his father and the rest of his companions with  wary look. Then, he sniffed at the air and winced as if he had smelled something particularly bad. “I see and smell Northmen. Why are they not dead?”

“Be careful that I don’t push my axe into your skull!” Robb heard the Greatjon mutter behind him, though his voice reached barely above the sound of the wind.

“I am Robb Stark,” Robb greeted the men seated on the horses. “And I brought men and provisions to feed your people. We come in peace to speak about our common enemy.”

Rattleshirt didn’t even look at Robb and searched Mance’s face. “What is he saying? You want to make peace with them?”

Mance Ryder seemed unbothered by the man’s brazen words.

“Only a brutish fool like you would think otherwise!” Mance threw back and brushed his hand over the sword fastened at his hip. It was a common steel sword, but probably better than what most Wildlings carried. It made Robb wonder how effective _Ice_ would be against such weapons. “If we want to survive we have to stand together, even if that means we have to piss on our pride.”

“Mance Ryder speaks true,” his father added his voice. “You were able to take the Wall, but if you march south you will be hunted like animals. Is that what you want for your wife and children?”

Rattleshirt gave a mocking laugh. “I hold no tolerance for mewling babes and weeping woman. I prefer my bitches.”

“No surprise there,” Val quipped. “No woman in her right mind would want to fuck a madman like you.”

The man clucked his tongue and climbed from his saddle, the horse’s mouth steaming in the cold air like cooking water.

“You are as sharp-tongued as ever, Val,” he said and smiled. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

“And I wish we could get some shelter. I am freezing off my toes.”

“Val speaks true,” Mance Ryder added with a smile and waved his hand at Robb, his father and his lords and ladies. “We have travelled with haste and a good-night sleep will do us good. A warm supper and a horn of ale would also be appreciated. Then, I shall explain my intentions to you if you care to listen.”

“I don’t,” Rattleshirt quipped and laughed at the same time. “But I would be a fool to refuse your request, Mance. I know what happened last time. At times, my head is still hurting from the blow to my head.”

“Good to hear,” Mance said and turned around to wave his hand at them, indicating for them to follow after him along the trampled path that led to the caves. “Would you please follow me, Lord Stark?”

Robb graced him with a frozen smile. “Aye, let’s go.”

A thousand eyes seemed to follow them as they made their way to the largest of the caves. The entrance reminded Robb of a gaping mouth of darkness, but when they drew closer more and more men and women came pouring out and chased away the darkness with torches.

The men and women eyed them warily, but the children were less fearful. They were particularly taken with Robb’s wolf and called after him in the rough Wildling tongue. Greywind seemed bothered by it.

“Calm yourself, my boy,” he told the wolf and pulled him down the descending stone steps that led into a large cavernous room, furnished with pelts, cookfires, hay, weapons, wood and a hundred more things Robb couldn’t name.  “There is not time for fighting.”

They all sat around the largest of the cookfires, pelts being their only way to soften the hard ground they were forced to sit upon. Women and girls brought them horns filled with ale, milk and broth that made Robb choke the first time his tongue tasted the murky green mush.

“The Others take me!” the Smalljon voiced what everyone was thinking. “What is this mush?”

“It’s broth made from pines,” Rattleshirt mocked and gobbled another spoon into his mouth. “It tastes like shit, but it keeps you alive. We have sent out hunting parties and we are fishing daily, but food his scarce these days and the Hunted Forest is crawling with Others and wights. It’s not a place someone would go willingly.”

“And that’s exactly why we must go there,” his father added as serious as ever after he had gobbled a spoon of the murky green mush into his mouth. Unlike, Robb’s pampered lords his father’s didn’t seem to care about the horrid taste. “My lords wish to see the enemy with their own eyes.”

Rattleshirt nearly dropped his spoon and gave Mance a disbelieving look.

“What addled this one’s brain?”

“Nothing,” Mance said with a smile that was dripping with scorn. “That is why we came and that is why Lord Stark brought his men. They want to see the true enemy.”

Rattleshirt said nothing for a long time, before he threw his head back and burst out in laughter.

This roused even more dislike among Robb’s lords. They were muttering to each other while the women along the walls were speaking to each other in hushed whispers. Val was among them and Robb had the feeling that she was talking about him.

 _She is probably mocking me_ , he thought. _She seems to enjoy that._

 _She really is a strange woman…and pretty_ , he thought involuntarily and his cheeks warmed at the thought. He felt shame too. Roslin was sweet and kind and didn’t deserve such a disloyal fool like him. _Pretty and deadly._

“Do you want me to lead you beyond the Wall?” Rattleshirt asked and swept his gaze over the Northmen. “Isn’t that so?”

“Not only you,” Mance said. “It would be best if Varamyr and his wargs would accompany you. Their companions can sense their scent.”

Robb didn’t belief his ears.

“Did you say warg?”

“Giant’s tits!” Rattleshirt exclaimed and nearly spilled his ale. “You have seen Giants, but you don’t know about wargs? You even have a direwolf.”

“I doubt he is aware of it,” Mance told Rattleshirt with a warning look and shifted his attention back to Robb.

Robb was confused. “Aware of what?”

“That you are a warg, Lord Kneeler,” Tormund Giantsbane added bluntly. “What else?”

Within the blink of a moment, his lords and father turned their heads to look at him.

“I do not understand…”

Surprisingly, it was the Smalljon who made the connection.

“Of course, it’s the wolf,” he said and grinned for the first time since he had stepped a foot on this barren land. “It is an old tale, my Lord Stark. The Starks of old were wargs and commanded all kinds of fearsome beasts. Many had direwolves, but some had bears or falcons. It seems you are a one of them.”

Robb felt that it was true. He and Greywind had always had a strange connection.

“It could be true, but I don’t know what it means to be a warg.”

“Varamyr can show you everything you need to know,” Mance added jestingly. “But beware. He is not a very sane man.”

“You don’t say,” Lord Karstark said and grimaced, as he poured down the last bits of his mush with the warm milk. “But what could some Wildling have to teach our lord?”

“More than you can know,” added a croaking voice. It was a very small woman who had suddenly emerged from behind a curtain, located on one of the upper levels of the cave. She was very old, her face lined and framed by white hair. Her eyes were the strangest about her. They were golden and piercing as if they could look straight into Robb’s heart. “We of the Freefolk have not forgotten the past like your kind. We are proud of our ancestry and we do not fear what we do not understand. That is why we have survived.”

“We have lingered as long in these lands as the Freefolk,” Lady Mormont pointed out. She seemed very at ease among these people. It made Robb wonder if the rumors about her were true. They said her children had been fathered by Wildlings. “But you are right. We have lost trust in these old tales. My Grand-Uncle was Lord Commander Mormont, a man you all despised, but also a man who saw this threat as real. He spoke about it more than once with my mother. _Winter is coming_ , he always reminded us. _And one day even the southron people will feel its icy fist_. _Then, they will weep bitter tears that they have forgotten about the Night’s Watch_.”

“Mormont’s blood, eh?” Rattleshirt asked, a bloody glimmer taking hold of his gaze. “Oh, what a joy it would be to kill you.”

“A joy I would wholeheartedly return,” Lady Alysanne replied and showed him her axe. “My sister called this one _Skullcrusher_. And I have another one on the ship. Its called _Lady’s Kiss_. It has kissed the head of many a man and none of them has survived.”

Oddly enough, Rattleshirt started to smile, but it was not like one of his previous mocking smiles, but softer.

“I would love to receive a kiss by a real woman, even if she is Mormont’s ilk.”

“Dream on,” Lady Alysanne mocked and grinned from one ear to the other.

An uncomfortable tension spread through the room as Lord Wull decided to voice his concerns.

“Even if these Others exist,” he said. “Who can guarantees us that you won’t just pillage our lands and rape our women?”

“We won’t,” Mance promised and exchanged a quick look with Robb. “Anyone who goes against my laws will be killed.”

“Then, I wish to make use of your offered justice,” the Smalljon grumbled. “if it pleases you.”

Mance grew very still and the whispering of a thousand voices could be heard in the background.

“What justice do you wish for, Lord Umber?”

“One of my daughters was carried off by your kind. I want this man’s head.”

“Jon,” his father called out, but was ignored by the Greatjon.

“I just wanted to hear how firm the King-Beyond-the-Wall is in following through with his promises.”

Robb was surprised how calm Mance Ryder was when he answered.

“I can’t do that. That would mean to kill every man who has ever committed a crime against your people. We can only look for the  future.”

“Mance is right,” his father agreed and searched the Greatjon’s face. “Whatever these wildlings did to your family, they did to countless others. We need to work together if we want to survive the coming winter..”

The Greatjon looked as if someone had slapped him over the face.

“My Lord Stark…,” the Greatjon began, but his father cut him off. It was the voice of the Lord of Winterfell and enough to silence even the mighty Greatjon.

“This is no child’s game, Jon. I mistrust Mance Ryder, but these Others are real. I wouldn’t bring you all the way here to fool you. Tell me, do you take me for a liar?”

The Greatjon dropped his head, a shameful expression washing over his face. He reminded Robb of a chided boy.

“No, my Lord.”

“Well, then,” his father replied. “I think all is said that needed to be said. I take all of you for good men who know what they are getting themselves into, which is why I am giving you a choice. Nobody forces you to come with us. If you want to stay behind you may do without regrets. Nobody shall name you a coward for it.”

Nobody spoke for a long time.

“I believe you, my Lord,” the Greatjon assured his father at last and looked at Robb. “I am no coward.”

“Me either,” Lady Alysanne added seriously. “I won’t shame my Grand-Uncle.”

“You may count on my support, Lord,” Lord Wull added less enthusiastic than expected.

Lord Norrey simply nodded his head and Lord Karstark was the last one to give his assurance.

“I shan’t be called a coward. I survived the Lannisters and I shall survive these Others.”

“To the brave Northmen!” Val toasted with a hint of mockery and lifted her drinking horn, before pouring the liquid into her mouth.

“And to new friends!” Mance added and drank deeply.

“And old enmities!” Rattleshirt shouted.

“And new ones!” Tormund added with barking laughter.

“Fuck the Others!” the Magnar of Thenn roared.

More and more toasts were given that night until the fires had burned low and most had gotten awfully drunk, leaving them with a dreamless sleep.

…


	92. The Union of the Sun and the Dragon

**Quentyn**

Quentyn felt like so often in his life…redundant. He was in the middle of a wedding feast, but he felt as if something bad was to happen at any moment.

He knew he should be happy for his sister, but he couldn’t help but to nurse a grudge.

He had travelled to Essos on his father’s command, had faced war and plague, only to be refused by the beautiful Dragon Princess in favor a baseborn bastard. That she had been barren had been another reason, but at times Quentyn believed it had been just another lie on her part, to draw him on her side without having to marry him.

Yet, then the Princess Daenerys had told the same to his _supposed_ nephew. He no longer knew what was the truth and what was lie.

The same could be said about his nephew. He had been nothing but kind towards him since they had met in Meereen, but that didn’t mean he was really his nephew. Well, his Uncle certainly seemed to believe it or perhaps he was just playing along to gain something from this situation. Quentyn himself had supported Aegon, because he hadn’t wanted to come home with empty hands.

And gained they had much from this allegiance, at least his family did. Aegon had taken Storm’s End, a castle known to be impregnatable. Not only that, his _supposed_ nephew had made Cersei Lannister’s bastard daughter a trueborn Baratheon and had renewed the match with his younger brother Tyrstane.

Just looking at the golden-haired girl made his heart flare with jealousy. Without the scar she might have even rivalled Princess Daenerys in beauty, but that was of no importance. She, like Quentyn, was just another puppet in the grand game his Uncle and father had gotten themselves into.

It was a game Quentyn feared, for he had seen with his own eyes what these dragons could do. Sure, there was no guarantee that the Princess Daenerys had managed to control them, but he couldn’t share Aegon’s opinion in this matter.

They would have to eventually  face the Princess Daenerys and her bastard lover.

 _Why did I not just refuse my father_ , Quentyn thought as poured himself a cup of wine, his gaze wandering long the high table that had been erected in the feasting hall of Storm’s End.

It was a rather small feast for a King, but then they had barely a week to plan this wedding. Even so, the hall was clean, the tables covered with crimson cloths and decked with silver plates and cups. Above them pronged the three-headed dragon joined by the golden sun of House Martell, but the most beautiful sight was his sister.

She glowed like the rising sun in her crimson dress, held together by golden pins. Her black hair was open and curled all the way down to the small of her back. Her red lips were even brighter and her cheeks were rosy.

His supposed nephew seemed also very enthusiastic about this match, his dark purple eyes constantly flickering back and forth between Arianne and his Uncle.

They were exchanging silly japes while Quentyn spent his time alone, sipping on his sour Dornish wine.  At times, he searched for his friends and cousins among the crowd of sellswords and the handful of lords that had arrived over the last week to pledge their support.

There was Aurane Waters who had come to represent the vassal Lords of Dragonstone that had once serve King Stannis, old Lord Tarth and even Lord Baelor Hightower had come to attend the feast.

Aurane Waters was a shady man or so Quentyn thought after he had exchanged a handful of words with him, but Aegon had been very pleased to have him here, especially after he had flattered him by calling him Aegon the Conqueror reborn. Even if Uncle had coughed when he had said this, but a moment later he was already jesting again. Old Lord Tarth had not spoken much since he had come here, but he was a pleasant and polite man, who feared for his only daughter and heir, who had pledged her sword to Kingslayer. He had also asked Aegon to show mercy to his daughter and the King had given his promise without hesitation. Baelor Hightower was above all, probably the most important guest. He was not only the heir to House Hightower, but had connections to both House Florent and House Tyrell.

Quentyn realized then that his cup empty again. Huffing, he poured himself another cup and watched as his cousins Elia and Tyene pulled two of the sellswords unto the dancefloor. Many more followed, but there were far too few women for all these men, most of them servant wenches or part of the entourage their future allies had brought with them.

When Aegon and Arianne joined, Quentyn was left in company of Baelor Hightower, most of the table empty safe for Princess Myrcella. Well, it didn’t take long before the scarred Princess was offered a dance by no other than Drink and later even by Rolly Duckfield, a red-headed young man that was always kind to Quentyn. It was a shame, for even the bastard Aurane Waters had a woman at his warm and soon disappeared in company of Elia Sand. This prompted Quentyn to pour down another cup and made him dream of the girl he hoped to wed one day while he was sure he would find a gruesome death in Essos.

“You are still unwed,” Baelor Hightower noticed. He was a handsome man in his forties, with golden hair and dark eyes. He had once nearly been wed to his Aunt or so his Uncle had told him and he was indeed a pleasant man, albeit a bit tongue-tied. “Isn’t that so, Prince Quentyn?”

“I hope to wed a girl when I return to Dorne, but she is still a bit too young,” he explained and felt his cheeks burn. “Lord Yronwood’s youngest daughter.”

“A pretty girl,” Baelor complimented, his dark gaze fixed on Aegon and Arianne. “Your sister is also very pretty…as was your Aunt. I remember her well. Tell me, is it true? Did Prince Rhaegar truly wed another woman?”

“That is what Princess Daenerys’ lover told me,” Quentyn explained. “He said Prince Rhaegar wed Princess Lyanna beneath a weirwood tree.”

“The Faith of the Seven would never accept that,” Baelor Hightower said. “The child of a second marriage can only be a bastard and nothing more.”

“So much is true,” Quentyn agreed hesitatingly. He held no liking for Lyanna Stark’s bastard, but he had saved his life. “But that won’t matter. The Princess was very taken with the bastard. She refused first me and then King Aegon, claiming that she is barren and even tried to arrange a marriage between my sister and the bastard. Well, she also has three dragons.”

“So it is true,” Baelor said, his dark gaze widening in wonder. “The dragons have returned. The real question is: is it a burden or a miracle.”

“Perhaps both,” Quentyn said and watched as the guests clapped when Aegon twirled his bride to the jolly tune of _the Bear and the Maiden Fair_. “These beasts are deadly, but beautiful to look upon. Aegon nearly rode one, but the bastard prevented it from happening.”

_He also saved your life. You dirty liar._

“That is good,” Baelor said with an approving nod. “But that won’t be enough. Your King will have need of a dragon to cement his position, but as long as the Princess is occupied with her fight against slavery it won’t be all too hard to take the crown. By taking Storm’s End you have already taking the first step towards victory and once a King is seated on the throne it won’t be so easy to remove him from power.”

Quentyn couldn’t agree with this. “What about the Kingslayer and King Stannis?”

“They are occupied with each other and will hopefully soon kill each other,” Baelor added in amusement. “And once the Redwyne Fleet has taken care of the Ironborn, your King will have an easy path to victory. Mace is a vain fool, but he might change sides if he sees that he stands alone. You only need to put the right amount of pressure on him.”

Quentyn’s curiosity was roused and he leaned closer.

“How so?”

“The Tyrells became the rulers of the Reach by the Targaryen’s courtesy and are now playing the obedient dogs to the Lannisters.  My father is not pleased about that and so are several other Lords of the Reach. My step-mother's brother is the heir to House Florent, once the true rulers of the Reach. There is no one who Mace Tyrell fears more than him.”

“But aren’t you dependent on the Tyrells? His mother is after all a Redwyne.”

Baelor chuckled and patted his shoulder. “Good observation, which is why I cannot pledge any men until the Ironborn threat is taken care of. Well, the rumors I have heard makes me believe that the final conflict is close.”

“My King will be thankful for any help he can get,” Quentyn replied diplomatically. “Well, the support of House Hightower would be more valuable the most precious jewels. Say, are you wed, Lord Hightower? Perhaps you are in need of  a wife. I have no other trueborn sisters, but I noticed that you have been watching my cousin Tyene.”

“She is a beautiful girl,” Baelor agreed. “But your cousin Nymeria is much more to my taste. I heard she is of noble blood, isn’t that so?”

“Aye,” Quentyn confirmed. “She was born into one of the oldest noble families of Volantis. Dragon blood runs through her veins, but even so…she is of baseborn birth. Well, that matters little to us from Dornish, but your people might think differently.”

“Well, a good thing that our King is right here,” Baelor explained and bared his white teeth. “A legitimization wouldn’t pose a problem, would it?”

“Perhaps not,” Quentyn said. “But I doubt you have time for that, though knowing Nym she wouldn’t mind some company, especially not such a fine lord like you.”

Baelor laughed and patted his shoulder.

“You really need to work on your courtship abilities,” he jested and rose to his feet. A heartbeat later, he was smiling and fluttering around Nym, who reincorporated the attention with a wide smile.

A handful of more dances were exchanged between his sister and her husband before the King returned to his seat and spoke to each of his guest, one after another.

Most had brought gifts, such as gold, trinkets, pelts, weapons and promises of an allegiance.

The last one, Aurane Waters came with an altogether different kind of proposal.

“Your Grace,” the silver-haired man said and dipped his head low as he knelt before his King. “I have heard of your enemies stirring beyond the Narrow Sea. They say your Aunt Princess Daenerys Targaryen has sailed forth from Pentos, probably planning to lay a claim on your throne.”

Aegon paled at the mention of his Aunt.

“You are well-informed,” Lord Connington added coldly. “How come you have acquired this delicate piece of information?”

“I rule Driftmark in the name of my late brother’s son,” he explained. “I also heard of your arrival before all others. Does that bother you, your Grace?”

“On the contrary,” Aegon replied warily. “I welcome the news. I am just surprised you are so well-informed.”

“That is good to hear,” Aurane Waters replied and smiled. “And the reason I brought up this topic is, because I think you should infiltrate your Aunt’s circles. I am so to say…willing to offer myself up as a sacrifice.”

“Are you?” his sister Arianne asked and put her cup down. “But surely there is something a brave man like you would desire in return for such a valiant deed?”

“There is a small thing I want, your Grace,” Aurane Waters asked. “I want to be legitimized and be granted a position in your court…only if it pleases you, of course.”

“It pleases me,” his King said. “House Targaryen and House Valeryon have been allies before. You shall have your reward if your plan proves fruitful.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Connington was about to interrupt, but his King silenced him with the wave of her hand.

“I approve of the plan,” the King said and looked directly at Aurane Waters. “But if it fails I knew nothing of your plan.”

“Of course,” the bastard of Driftmark replied and took his leave.

Thus, the King rose and turned to his guests.

“I have need of my dire rest,” he declared and smiled at Arianne. ”And my lady as well.”

Chuckling and hushed whispers could be heard as his sister and their King retired to their chambers.

As so often, Quentyn remained behind and wished only to return to Yronwood and to wed his _own_ Lady, Lord Yronwood’s daughter…

…


	93. The Trial

**The Hound**

The world around him was reduced to a narrow slit in his helmet. It made him feel alive, as if he had put on his old skin.

He was back in full plate armor, his head covered with a steel helmet. It felt fucking good.

When Darry handed him his shield, he felt a slight strain in his arm, but that was no surprise. His wound was still ailing him, but he had it much worse.

 _Give me the bloody sword_ , he wanted to snap at the Darry, who had annoyed him with tales about Corbray’s abilities in swordplay.

The Hound couldn’t have cared less to hear about it.

The Hound was not afraid of that prideful peacock. He had faced a far more terrible monster than Corbray, his own brother, who had set his bedding aflame when he was a young boy.

 _One day, I am going to kill you too_ , _dear brother_ , he thought and received his blade from Darry. _But now I have to win the heart of Lady Forlorn._

Said Lady was the beautiful Valyrian Steel sword carried by Corbray’s squire, a pretty boy with blond hair.

The Hound had heard rumors about Corbray’s liking for boys.

Not that it mattered to him. Corbray could fuck horses, sheep or trees for all he cared. Important was that this sweet Lady would soon be his.

 _Mayhaps she will give my brother the kiss of death_ , the Hound thought as he looked at his blade.

A thousand foes had been vanquished by this weapon and this one would be the last one.

 _My beautiful Lady Forlorn_ , the Hound whispered in amusement and felt the urge to snort when Darry was beginning to whisper his prayers to the Gods.

Well, it was better than to endure the babbling of a Septon, but the presence of Littlefinger alone was enough to sour the Hound’s mood.

The fool used to mock his scar and had always believed himself above others, because Jon Arryn had given him the position of Master of Coin.

Nothing had changed since then. On the contrary, the fool had become even more self-important and was now fucking the Lady Paramount of the Vale.

And the way this foolish woman was looking at him, one might think he was the most splendid man that had ever lived.

No one had ever looked at the Hound like that. Even the whores that had smiled at him while he was fucking them had always betrayed their true thoughts through their eyes.

No wonder this was a fucked-up world if someone as slimy as Littlefinger had a woman that worshipped the ground  he walked on.

“Well, soon he will find the embrace of a prison cell,” the Hound muttered to himself and shifted his attention back to Corbray.

He was garbed in shining plate, his brazen smile becoming even brighter, as he eyed him across the battlefield.

It was a round field of grass, located beneath a balcony, the marble towers of the Eyrie kissing the blue sky above.

The Hound felt the heat of the sun through his armor and looked once more at Corbray. He was still smiling.

 _Fuck you_ , the Hound wanted to say, but he wasn’t allowed to speak, least he would blow his cover and reveal their plot.

“Do you have any last words?” asked Corbray. “Speak to your gods if you must.”

 _Speak to your gods if you must_ , _fool,_ the Hound thought to himself. _And pray that boyfuckers don’t burn in the seven hells._

Finally, Corbray pulled down the visor of his helmet and unsheathed his blade.

It was a beautiful sight when the sunlight fell upon the rippling surface of Lady Forlorn.

Compared to that, the Hound’s sword looked like an ugly whore.  Well, it was at least sharp. He had made sure of that.

“May the Seven reveal the truth to us,” Darry said at last, announcing the beginning of the trial. “May they guide our way through the darkness.”

It was all the encouragement the Hound needed to lift his blade and bashed it towards Corbray’s head.

Corbray had parried the blow faster than lightening.

But it was only the beginning of the first dance. Like a first step.

Surefooted, he moved backwards, lifted his blade and blocked Corbray’s next blow.

The Hound had foreseen his enemy’s movement.

His blade came down upon Corbray’s shoulder protection, the blade leaving a scratch, but nothing more than that.

Not that the Hound had expected more. Cutting through plate was an almost impossible task, but there were small places around the neck and the joints that were vulnerable for an attack.

Yet, the most difficult thing was to get close enough to find these places.

Corbray was quick to bombard him with a barrage of blows to the head before he circled around him and tried to reach for his shoulder.

The Hound had seen it coming and had lifted his blade in time.

Again, the sound of rattling steel rang in his ears. It was a natural sound for him, as familiar as breathing.

The blades kissed and parted. The Hound didn’t wait long before he acted and brought his sword forward, to bash it straight into Corbray’s covered face.

He heard his opponent gasp in surprise, but he parried the Hound’s next blow as masterfully as he had done before.

The blades kissed and parted gain, before they put some distance between each other.

The Hound could hear his quick heartbeat and his labored breathing, but he was hardly tired.

On the contrary, he was very excited. His blood was burning for battle.

Their blades met mid-air and parted in the matter of a heartbeat. This time, Corbray made a daring move and slashed his blade sideways at the Hound’s neck.

He couldn’t help but to curse. He had barely managed to lift his shield in time, Corbray’s Valyrian steel sword cutting deep into the wooden surface.

The Hound acted purely out of instinct and pushed his shield forward, bashing it straight into Corbray’s face.

The savage blow had caught the man completely off guard.

Corbray stumbled backwards, like a man too deep in his cups.

The Hound showed him no mercy.

He dealt his enemy a quick barrage of blows, but he parried each of them masterfully, something the Hound hadn’t expected.

Corbray was a vain peacock, but a good swordsman, so much he had to admit.

In the same breath, the Hound threw away his shield and held his sword with two hands, swinging it before him like a club, before aiming at Corbray’s left side.

The Hound heard Corbray’s muffled laughter.

“You are better than I thought,” he mocked. “For a pig farmer armed with a sword.”

The Hound ignored his weak insult and a heartbeat later they were at each other again, hitting and striking at each other like mad men.

Left and right, up and down, the blades danced around each other like a maid around her suitor.

The Hound received a blow to the shoulder while Corbray received a blow to the side. Both were gasping for air, but that was only the beginning.

The maddening dance continued, but the last phase of the battle had begun. His experience told him so much.

 _I have to stir his anger_ , he knew and moved at his enemy again. This time, the sword left an even deeper gash upon the shoulder protection.

He heard Corbray’s loud gasp and made use of the opportunity that presented itself to him in that deciding moment.

He brought down his blade in a perfect arch, aiming straight for his enemy’s neck. Corbray barely managed to parry the blow, the blades meeting straight above his head.

Corbray was huffing, but the Hound allowed him no moment to rest. Within the blink of a moment, he grabbed his opponent’s arm, trying to bring him off balance.

Corbray tried to free himself, but the Hound kept him in place and brought up his sword in the same moment, bashing its pommel against his opponent’s helmet.

The banging sound was loud and bright.

And effective, for Corbray stumbled forward into his embrace like a puppet without strings.

The Hound welcomed him in his embrace and pushed him to the ground.

The man struggled like a turtle that had landed upon its back.

The Hound was holding down Corbray with one hand and pulling on his arm with the other.

When he pulled hard on Corbray’s arm, grunt of pain escaped his lips.

Finally, the blade slithered out of his hand and hit the ground with a thudding sound.

Corbray continued to struggle, but it was no use.  The Hound was much stronger than him.

It would be easy to kill him now. And he wanted to kill him, desperately so, but there was something that was holding him back.

As he held his blade to the Corbray’s neck he spoke, his voice hoarse and distant to his ears.

“Will you yield or die, fool?”

The Hound waited for a moment, giving Corbray enough time to pull up the visor of his helmet.

Corbray’s mouth was split and blood was running down his chin like a river of crimson.

His breathing labored and his eyes wide. The Hound could not say if it was anger or fear that shone in his eyes.

“I shall ask you again,” the Hound said. “Will you yield or die?”

Corbray’s gaze darted to Littlefinger and then back to the Hound. He swallowed hard and spat on the ground, fresh blood running from his nose.

“I yield,” Corbray snorted. “I shall not die for a man like him.”

“Coward!” Lady Lysa shrieked, the very sound of her high-pitched voice making the Hound’s blood freeze. “Petyr gave you everything and you are not even prepared to die for him!”

The Hound let go of Corbray, sheathed his sword and shifted his attention back to the onlookers.

“Corbray is a gnat, but I can understand why he wouldn’t want to die for someone like Littlefinger,” the Hound said and looked back at Corbray, who had managed to pull himself into a sitting position, his squire steadying him. “What do you have to say, Littlefinger?”

Littlefinger’s smile was unreadable as ever.

The Hound knew the battle was not over when Lord Yohn Royce stepped forward and Lady Lysa clung tightly unto Littlefinger’s arm.

“Dare to touch Petyr and you shall all pay for it! Do not forget that my boy is still the Lord of the Vale!”

Littlefinger pulled on Lady Lysa’s arm, his green-blue eyes flickering to Darry.  “This was a mummery of the vilest sort. You said this would be a fight between a brother of the Faith and my champion Ser Lyn Corbray. I question the legitimacy of this trial.”

“Petyr speaks true,” Lysa added eagerly, her blue gaze filled with rage. “This was a travesty. This man is no true brother of the Faith, but a known rapist and murderer.”

“The Hound is a member of the Faith,” Lady Stark countered, as she stepped forward to stand beside Yohn Royce and Lady Waynwood. Lord Harrold Hardygn was also there, lingering behind one of the marble pillars with the Crowfucker looming over him, his hood covering his face. “I saw how he lived the life of a brother of the Quiet Isle. Whatever he was before, doesn’t count. He is a changed man.”

“A changed man?” Lord Belmore asked and came to stand beside Littlefinger. “I am no man to question a trial decided by the gods, but this was quite a manipulative way to go about it, my Lady.”

“I agree,” Ser Symon Tempelton added in displeasure. “This was a vile way to accomplish a victory.”

The Hound scoffed. “Stop licking Littlefinger’s ass. He is not worth the effort. Corbray is smarter than you foolish lot.”

“Ser Corbray ought to keep his mouth shut,” Littlefinger threatened and Corbray clenched his teeth. “And so should you, Ser Clegane. I am sure there are many in the Seven Kingdoms who want to see you dead.”

The Hound chuckled mockingly. “Is that supposed to scare me? My brother wanted me dead ever since I was a young babe he is by far much scarier than any of you.”

“Even so, a trial before the gods must be based on the truth,” Lord Redfort said solemnly. “And giving a false name is such a lie.”

“A lie maybe, but not enough to question the trial’s legitimacy,” the Crowfucker’s rattling voice rang through the hall. He moved towards them, his walk uneven  and his dark eyes glinting beneath the hood of cloak. “The law is clear about that.”

All eyes were now fixed on the Crowfucker. He didn’t even flinch. Truly, he was either a madman or simply didn’t give a shit.

“Is it?” Littlefinger asked in obvious amusement. It was obvious, that he didn’t deem the Crowfucker a danger. He was even smiling. “Would you care to enlighten us with your hidden knowledge, brother?”

“I would,” the Crowfucker replied. “The trial of Ser Lyle Crowe and a certain Tomas Muddy was similar to this one, though the reason was of much less importance to the realm as a whole. Ser Lyle Crowe had supposedly raped and murdered a Lady in his Lord’s service, but nobody, but the girl’s kin cared to see justice done. Thus, the Lady’s brother acquired armor and challenged proud Ser Lyle Crowe  for a duel, claiming that he had been the Lady’s lover. Of course, Ser Lyle Crowe hadn’t refused the request and yielded when his enemy’s blade was held to his neck. He too questioned the legitimacy of the duel, probably to keep his belongings, for not long after trial, the true identity of Tomas Muddy had been revealed to everyone. As custom dictated, they called upon their Lord and a Septon. The Lord stood with his knight, but the Septon stood with the simple man, claiming that the gods look beyond names and titles. In the end, this matter was even brought before King Jaehaerys himself, who also spoke in favor of the simple man. This decree by no other than the King makes it common law applicable in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Littlefinger gave the Crowfucker a look of utter disbelief while the Lords and Ladies on the balcony were starting to mutter to each other in hushed whispers.

“And how do we know that you are not lying?” he asked. As far as I know these archives are kept in the Citadel.”

“Then, you ought to call upon a Maester,” said Ser Bonifer Hasty. “I am sure one of them would be willing to prove the brother’s claims.”

“It could be done,” the Maester in Littlefinger’s employ said softly, who promptly received a threatening glare from Lady Lysa.

“Nothing will be done!” she shrieked and glared at both the Crowfucker and Darry. “These men are scoundrels…Maybe they were also lying about their belonging to the Faith.”

“The Elder Brother is no liar, Lord Baelish,” Ser Bonifer Hasty countered. “I know of the trial the brother spoke of.”

“You are familiar with this trial?” Lady Waynwood asked. “Are you sure, good Ser?”

“I have spent a good part of my youth at King Jaehaerys’ court,” Ser Bonifer Hasty confirmed with a hesitant smile. “I am prepared to give a vow and I am sure you will receive the same confirmation if you are disposed to send a raven to the Citadel.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lord Royce said. “I know Ser Bonifer as a truthful man, who would never lie about such a matter. It seems the law stands against you, Lord Baelish.”

“A Targaryen law,” Littlefinger countered. “Would have King Robert agreed with this decision?”

Yohn Royce wrinkled his bushy eyebrows in confusion. “How is that of any importance?”

“It is not,” the Crowfucker said. “It would only matter if King Jaehaerys’ successor repealed this law by giving a different verdict concerning a similar trial. “

“And is there such a case?” Lady Catelyn asked, her voice filled with fear as she looked at the Maester.

Littlefinger’s Maester squirmed, but answered. “I wouldn’t know, my Lady. I could only inquire…,” he began, but Lady Lysa cut him off again.

“You will do no such thing!” she snapped. ”This duel was unlawful and Petyr would have never agreed to this trial if he had known the truth.”

“I can believe that,” Lord Hunter said in a hostile tone. “Still, I say, this duel was lawful, despite the Elder Brother’s crooked methods. The gods are all knowing and do not care what names their champions take.”

“Quite right,” Lady Waynwood said. “The gods are all knowing and such, which means the duel is decided. The more important question is: Will you finally stand down or do you wish for war, Lord Baelish?”

“Quite right,” Corbray mocked. “I shall enjoy your demise.”

“Traitor,” Lady Lysa muttered and Littlefinger had to hold her back from throwing herself at the man. “You dirty little traitor.”

“Calm yourself, sweet Lysa,” Littlefinger cooed and shifted his attention back to Lady Catelyn. He looked so different in that moment, his face soft and youthful, as if he was a young boy again. ”And you Catelyn. I say it again, as your friend. I never betrayed your husband. I did what I needed to do to survive. Think of the future of you children. You may think, supporting Stannis is the right thing to do, but my informants tell me that the dragons have returned. We ought to…,” he began, but Ser Tempelton had grabbed his shoulder in that moment, silencing him.

“We ought to do nothing,” Ser Tempelton said. “And no further words of treason from your mouth in Lord Arryn’s halls.”

“No,” Lysa Arryn shrieked, but was held back by Ser Bonifer and Lord Redfort. “No! Petyr! No!”

She was a puddle of despair when Littlefinger was led away. Soon after, Royce tasked the Maester to take care of their Lady.

“This was quite a spectacle,” Darry said later, as he sat down on his bunk. “This Petyr Baelish is a clever man.”

“People like Littlefinger are so slippery they get out of every situation,” the Hound replied, his gaze fixed on the beautiful smoky surface of Lady Forlorn, the sword he had won from Corbray, who had of course sworn to retake the sword one day.  The Hound had only laughed about him. _Only from my dead hands._ “The only way to get rid of him is to kill him.”

“That would be unlawful,” the Crowfucker replied. He was seated on the ground and was feeding the crows with corn. “Only a King can sit justice over a Lord Paramount. It is the law.”

“Fuck, the law I say,” the Hound countered in amusement and brushed the cloth once more over Lady Forlorn’s smoky surface. “Though I have to admit…you played them well. I thought you were a soldier before coming to the gnats of the Quiet Isle? Were you a Maester?”

The Crowfucker’s dark eyes met his. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” another, familiar voice added and caused them to turn their heads. It was Ser Bonifer Hasty, his dark eyes piercing. “And I think there is a King who can sit justice over Lord Baelish.”

Hasty was trembling, his dark eyes filled with disbelief as he stepped closer towards the Crowfucker.

Suddenly, the old knight knelt.

“Your Grace…I wasn’t sure at first, but now I can see clearly. You have changed, but you have your mother’s eyes, eyes I wouldn’t forget in a thousand years. You are Princes Rhaegar.”

The Crowfucker didn’t move and stared back at the man in silence.

“Have you lost your wits, Hasty?” the Hound asked the man. Prince Rhaegar was dead and gone, his chest squashed by Robert’s Warhammer and his rubies spilled into the River Trident.

“Ser Bonifer,” Darry said, his voice ringing with fear. “I think you do not understand…,” he was about to continue, but the Crowfucker shook his head.

“It is true, isn’t it, brother?” the Crowfucker asked and turned his head to look at Darry. “I am this…No, I was this man…this Prince Rhaegar. I think I have some of his memories.”

Darry looked as if all blood had drained out of his face before he stumbled towards the man and fell to his knees.

“You remember?”

“I have only scattered memories,” the Crowfucker explained, as he shifted his attention back to Ser Bonifer. “You knew this man’s mother?”

Hasty had tears in his eyes as he nodded his head in confirmation. “I knew Queen Rhaella well. I once crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“I see,” the Crowfucker said. “This man you call Prince Rhaegar did the same with another woman.”

“Indeed,” Hasty said. He was smiling like a fool while the Hound felt as if some bizarre mummery was being played out before his very eyes. “You did. I remember it well. But tell me…How is that possible? They saw you die.”

“The man you spoke of did die,” said the Crowfucker or Rhaegar or whoever the bloody hell he was. “I know so much.”

“Yet, you are here,” Hasty said. “With us. Surely, the gods must have given us a sign.”

“All this has nothing to do with the gods,” the Crowfucker said and shook his head. “It is magic that brought me back, but even so I am no longer this man you call Rhaegar. I have his memory and his crippled body, but there was much lost when I looked into the abyss of death. I cannot be a King nor sit justice over this silver-tongued man.”

“Then, who shall rule?” Hasty asked, all hoped banished from his eyes. “The Heathen King Stannis and his Red Witch? The Kingslayer who murdered his King and fathered bastards on his own sister?”

“The Kingslayer,” the Crowfucker asked. “What is his true man if I may ask?”

 “Ser Jaime,” the Hound scoffed in utter disbelief. “His bloody name is Ser Jaime. You must have known him when you were alive.”

It was the second time he saw a visceral reaction in the Crowfucker’s face. There was anger and confusion visible in his dark eyes.

“This man spoke to a man by that name. He made him promise…to protect his wife and children.”

Then, he turned to look at Darry. He was shaking. “But he failed, didn’t he? I think so…”

“Aye,” the Hound answered for Darry. “Lord Tywin’s men butchered them all when King’s Landing fell.”

The Crowfucker’s face fell, dark shadow falling over him.

“I see.”

“Your Grace…” Hasty began, but the Crowfucker shook his head.

“You mustn’t call me that. I am not this man you speak of. I am just the Stranger.”

“Your Grace…,” Hasty was about to protest again, but Darry cut him off.

“My brother is right,” Darry said sharply. “It would be too dangerous for anyone to know…,” he was about to continue and turned abruptly to the Hound, as if he only now realized that he was there.

The Hound didn’t know why, but he burst out in laughter.

This was utter madness. Utter madness.

“Brother,” Darry began, but the Hound flashed him a broad grin.

“Stop calling me that,” he mocked. “And stop shitting yourself, Darry.  I see no reason why I would sell you out. Most would probably think me a madman anyway and I got my price, a beautiful Lady.”

“We have return to the Quiet Isle,” Darry added in obvious relief. “It is the safest place there is, brother.”

Strangely, the Crowfucker shook his head, his eyes changing to a different color. They were dark indigo with a hint of purple.

“There is something I must do. The crow told me that I must go to battle. We should ride with the knights of the Vale.”

“Brother…,” Darry protested, but the Crowfucker shook his head.

“There is something I must do.”

…


	94. Into Battle

Jaime was pacing up and down the chamber, his heart racing. He had never expected to find himself in such a situation.

He was a King and his wife was about to give birth to their child.

He could hear her muffled cries through the thick walls and the whispers of the handmaids in the anteroom.

That he was not a patient man didn’t make it any easier.

 _Always too quick to act_ , Cersei had always said.

His heart was suddenly filled with shame when he thought of Cersei, but when he heard a loud cry he turned around rather abruptly and look at Ser Leo Lefford, the Lord of the Golden Tooth. Beside, him was Ser Addam Marbrand and his Uncle Keven, who had been sitting together drinking and talking about Stannis latest movements. They had asked Jaime to join them, but he had refused.

His mind was not posed for battle strategies, because his wife was suffering on his account.

It was true, Jaime didn’t love Lady Margaery Tyrell, as much as he had loved Cersei, but in his own way he had grown quite fond of her.

She had beauty and wit. She was also never a hinderance to him. She would also make a good Queen or so he believed, but then he had never cared about that.

All his heart longed for was to bury his sword in Stannis Baratheon’s dark heart.

Yet, even that was more difficult than anticipated. Jaime had hoped that Stannis would grow impatient, but the contrary had happened.

Instead of joining his men, that were leaving  death and destruction behind them as they were moving through the Reach, he had remained at Harrenhall, hiding away in company of his Red Whore.

Yet, that was not the worst of their problems. The tidings that had reached their ears nearly a moon ago, had shaken Jaime even more.

It seems that a certain King Aegon Targaryen, had invaded the Stormlands and had somehow managed to take Storm’s End.

Most men in his presence had taken it for a lie, but a day ago they had received more written confirmations.

Ravens had been sent to all important lords of the realm, informing them of the return of the true King, Prince Rhaegar’s heir.

Jaime had shuddered when he had heard this, but not because he was afraid of this boy, but because he had been reminded of his greatest failures.

He had failed Prince Rhaegar, who had entrusted his children and wife to him.

Burdened by his guilt, Jaime had locked himself away in his chambers.

He had opened a bottle and had drowned one cup after another before falling into restless sleep. Then, he  had been plagued by terrible nightmares.

The Dragon Prince had come to him, his chest bleeding where Robert Baratheon’s hammer had struck him and reminding him of his past loyalties. Then, his father had joined the ghostly parade, to chase away the shadow of Rhaegar Targaryen and to remind him who he truly was. _My son and heir_ , he had said and when Jaime had tried to touch him he had faded away like the morning mist.

Lannister or Targaryen, he was torn on the matter. He had great respect for the Dragon Prince and he felt tempted…tempted to leave his crown and crimson cloak behind him and return to his old life as a member of the Kingsguard.

 _The boy would kill me_ , Jaime knew and smiled as he leaned against the wall. _Or mayhaps he is simply a dirty pretender._

Whatever was true, Jaime’s clouded thoughts cleared when he felt his Uncle’s touch on his shoulder.

“Nephew,” Kevan Lannister said and pointed at the door, where a young lady, on of Margaery’s kin, a certain Elinor Tyrell was standing and holding a squirming bundle in her arms. “Your child has been born.”

Jaime nodded his head and walked towards the girl. He was trembling like one the day he had killed his first man.

“Here, your Grace,” Lady Elinor said and handed him the babe. “Your daughter.”

Jaime understood why she looked so disappointed. They had all hoped for a son, but strangely Jaime felt only joy.

When Cersei had been carrying their children, he hadn’t thought much of them. He had always thought of them as Cersei’s children _with_ Robert, but never as _his_ own.

In time, he had come to care for _them_ in his own way, especially for Tommen and Myrcella. Joffrey less so, but even then he had never seen them as _his_ children and born for _his_ seed.

He had cared for them, because Cersei had cared for them.

This felt different. He recognized this as he had touched the babe’s tuft of golden hair. Its head was long and red, but when its eyes opened they were green and golden.

The babe had his mother’s eyes. Jaime had forgotten her face, but his youthful mind had retained this memory for all these years.

The babe gave another squeal and squirmed, her cheeks growing red and hot.

Jaime laughed and he instinctively rocked the babe, but his daughter only continued to scream louder, her fists balled in defiance.

The tears came a moment later, for in that moment the babe reminded him of his fierce sister.

“Joanna,” he whispered and entered the chamber, where Lord Lefford’s Maester, a big-bellied man with blondish hair, who was still grouching between his wife’s legs.

His robes were bloody and there was even more blood on the cloth that lay beside the bed. The bed was at least covered with a fresh cloth and his wife was garbed in a maiden-white nightgown.

Her face was still pale, her dark hair sweaty and clinging to her cheeks.

The sight scared Jaime, for he recalled how his mother had died.

Tyrion had killed her or at least that is what his sister had always told him, though Jaime had never shared her belief.

It wasn’t like Tyrion had ever intended to kill their mother..

Cersei had been wrong to accuse him.

“Your Grace!” the Maester said. “We are nearly done…,” he began, but Jaime cut him off.

“I want to speak with my Queen,” he told the man. “And now fuck off!”

The man fell silent and ushered the ladies out, who had been assisting his wife with the birth, out of the room.

“You are always using such vile words,” Margaery said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “And you better hand her back to me. She is hungry and needs to be fed. My mother would not be pleased if she knew.”

“How so?” Jaime asked, as she pulled down her nightgown to reveal her breasts. “My mother fed me and my sister in front of the King. Aerys was constantly staring at her, the lusty old cunt. My father never forgave him for that.”

Lady Margaery had chuckled at that and their daughter was sucking fiercely on her mother’s pretty tits.

“My mother also suckled Willas herself,” Margaery added and grimaced when the babe sucked particularly hard. “I suppose it is understandable. He was after all her firstborn son, but after only a week of suckling , my brother had gotten so used to it that he refused the wet nurse.”

“Well, I don’t mind the view,” Jaime replied jestingly. “Your tits are pretty. No wonder the little one likes them.”

“It is not very pleasant,” Margaery said and grimaced at the sucking sound. “And it will make it harder to conceive a _son_. In fact, I am surprised that you are not disappointed. My father and grandmother will not show it openly, but they will tell me in some way.”

“Fuck them, I say,” Jaime said and leaned forward to squeeze her hand. “I am quite satisfied with what you gave me.”

“Have you chosen a name?” Margaery asked, her golden eyes alight with curiosity.

“Aye,” Jaime confirmed. “Joanna…after my Lady Mother. Only if it pleases you, of course.”

Margaery smiled. “A good name. I like it.”

Yet, Jaime was not afforded much time with his child.

He was barely allowed to break his fast in company of Margaery before he was forced to return to another war council.

A raven had arrived, Ser Addam had informed him and had led him into the council chamber where everyone had assembled.

They looked somber and tense. Jaime knew why, for Stannis Baratheon’s men had started to attack the Reach in small groups, pillaging and butchering those who were not willing to bend the knee to the _rightful_ King.

It was a familiar way of fighting, for his Lord Father had done the same to the Riverlords, who had only recently tried to capture the Golden Tooth. They had also tried to enter the Westerlands the same way Robb Stark had used during his campaign against his Lord Father, but Jaime had had enough foresight to inquire which route the Young Wolf had used and had positioned his men there. Still, a few hundred Riverlords had managed to break through, though there was not much left to burn or to take after Robb Stark had done so the previous year.

And that was the gist of his problem. On the long run, he would not have enough corn to feed his people and armies. Sure, he had plenty of gold and he had also sent ships to the Free Cities to acquire corn, but the war between the Mad Queen’s daughter and the slavers had driven up corn prices to such proportions that he had only got half of what he would have gotten during springtime.

Jaime knew what needed to be done. He needed to fight.

“They say at least four smaller groups have entered the Reach two week turns ago and have been burning everything up to the Mander. Lord Tarly sent out men to capture them, but he thinks it would be unwise to leave the _Roseroad_ unprotected, especially with this Targaryen pretender still lingering in the Stormlands and making common cause with the Martells.”

“I thought Lord Tarly was eager for battle?” Ser Addam snorted. “Or is he already looking for another King to serve?”

“My father stands with his Grace,” Lord Willas Tyrell admonished. “Tarly is a loyal man. I do not see him change sides so easily.”

“Yet, they speak of dragons beyond the Narrow Sea,” his Uncle Kevan said, his voice laced with worry. “The rumors say that Aerys’ daughter has hatched three dragons and has been waging a brutal war against the slaver cities. What Princess Daenerys and this Pretender are working together?”

“Then, why is she still in Essos and not here with him?” Lord Willas asked and wrinkled his brows in confusion. “It only adds more credence to the possibility that this boy is nothing more than a pretender who is making use of the current chaos. I have to admit…he is not without cunning. He waited until Stannis had left the Stormlands. Whoever is working for him, is a capable spy.”

“So much is true,” Jaime said and tried to ignore the existence of this Aegon and his Aunt Princess Daenerys. He had not donned the crown to win the Iron Throne, despite what Mace Tyrell had been hoping for, but to take revenge against Stannis, his true enemy, the man who had murdered his sister, his father, brother…and his two sons. “But first we must fight Stannis and then we can think of this Targaryen Pretender. I say, we have waited long enough. Let us fight.”

“I agree,” Ser Addam added approvingly and brushed his hand over the map that lay spread over the wooden table. Beside the map stood four candles, lightening the gloomy chamber filled with dust and creaking furniture. It was strange, but he wished his little wife was here. She would make a jest and the men would laugh. That would make it easier for him. “But how will we go about it? That is the important question.”

“Indeed,” Jaime said and sucked in a deep breath, his hand brushing over the map and pointing at each of the wooden figurines. One, a trout, was placed near Riverrun and another before the Golden Tooth, meant to represent the Riverlords. The Tyrells were also represented, each a wooden figure carved in the form of a knight carrying a shield and a golden rose. One of these knights was placed near Storm’s End, the Roseroad, at Dragonstone and at Oldtown, though much had changed since they had last held a war council. Dragonstone had been easily taken by Ser Loras Tyrell, Storm’s End had fallen to the Pretender and the battle with the Ironborn was drawing ever closer or so Ser Garlan Tyrell had assured him in his last raven. “And I have already pondered over this matter all morning…I think the best way is to give Stannis what he wants… to fight him.”

“What do you have in mind, nephew?” his Uncle Kevan asked and scratched his chin. “But we shouldn’t underestimate the Blackfish.”

“I intend to be at two places at once…to distract Stannis,” Jaime explained with a smile and recalled how Robb Stark had fooled his father. Surely, his Lord Father was rolling in his grave, knowing that Jaime was taking inspiration from his enemies, but then he couldn’t deny that the boy was clever and had bested him at the Whispering Wood. This was his chance to prove himself. “We will play a little mummery.”

Then, he looked up and smiled at Ser Addam. “But I will need your help for that.”

Ser Addam nodded his head in acknowledgement. “What do you have in mind, your Grace?”

“I want you to put my golden crown and crimson cloak to invade the Riverlands. Make the Blackfish believe that I am coming for him. This should be enough to confuse the Riverlords and lure Stannis out of his hiding place.”

“And what will you be doing, your Grace?” Lord Willas Tyrell inquired.

“I shall join my host with some of Lord Tarly’s men and march up the Goldroad to surprise Stannis. The road is not meant for large armies, but a few thousand men should be able to make it at a reasonable pace .”

“It sounds promising theory,” his Uncle Kevan replied skeptically. “And we must put an end to this war or the smallfolk will starve…and starving soldiers and peasants is the worst kind of enemy.”

“I agree,” Lord Willas said. “And dragons even more so, that is if these rumors turn out to be true. What if the Mad King’s daughter decides to join the fold? How will we fight dragons?”

 _Then, we are royally fucked_ , Jaime thought, but now was not the time to waste on ifs and nots. Now was the time to act.

Besides, Jaime had always known he would die in battle, but there were worse fates to be had.

His only regret was his little wife and child, whom he had dragged into this war.

“Then, we will fight,” Jaime declared. “And take revenge.”

…

 


	95. Stormborn

**Jon**

Somewhere off in the distance, hidden behind swirls of white fog, rose the towers of Dragonstone, giving the impression of black candles kissing the sky.

 

Jon rubbed his shoulders as he stepped towards the prow of the ship, Ghost trailing after him and casting shadows behind him. It was close to dawn, at least that is what Jon could deduce from the reddish glow trying to burst through the

clouds.

 

Jon knew this kind of color well. In the North it would mean that a cold day lay ahead of them and looking at the glaziers of ice draping the ship’s railing, he realized that his gut feeling was right.

 

 _I have forgotten what cold feels like_ , Jon thought and smiled grimly, but that was no surprise. After the sweltering heat of the east, it felt as if the cold was trying to wench its way deep beneath his skin.

 

Jon shudder when a gust of cold wind washed over him or better said them. As if conjured by magic, Dany had appeared, her head covered with the furred cap that had been made from the white fur of some foreign beast Jon had never seen before. It looked like a lion. The fur looked warm and thick and suited Dany’s silver hair and dark purple eyes.

 

“There it is,” she said and rubbed her gloved hands together. Ghost was already rolling on the ground, fresh snowflakes falling from the sky and melting away on Dany’s pelt. “Dragonstone. My birthplace. _My children_ seem to know their home.”

 

With _my children_ , she meant the two dragons, one black like a shadow and the green-golden whenever the sparse light fell upon his rough skin. Rhaegal roared and soared over the black towers, his scaled tail nearly touching one of them. Drogon made no sound, the swishing sound of his wings the only song accompanying him as he landed somewhere on the island with its black, steaming mountains. _Vulcanos_ , Jon guessed, but wasn’t sure. A long time ago, he had read something about steaming mountains in Maester Luwin’s dusty books.

 

“Dragonstone was made from the same black stone as the bridge connecting the two halves of Volantis,” remarked Archmaester Marwyn, who must have accompanied Dany. He wore grey robes beneath a cloak made form thick brown pelt.  His face was red from the cold, but that didn’t seem to bother him. His eyes were alight with wonder as he watched the dragons. ”And it was probably made by dragon fire.”

 

Jon was fascinated by these revelations, but Dany said nothing. Her gaze was still lingering on Dragonstone.

 

Jon couldn’t fault her. He would probably act the same if this was Winterfell.

 

“You are right,” Jon said at last and leaned over to squeeze her folded hands. “The dragons seemed even more intrigued by the castle than Marwyn.”

 

It was then that Dany angled her head to the side and acknowledged Archmaester Marwyn’s presence.

 

“Viserys told me that many dragons were born here,” Dany said and squeezed his hand in return. “Perhaps it is good that we made  it in time.”

 

Realization washed over him as he searched her face. Roughly two moons had passed since they had left Pentos and by then, so Marwyn had told them, would their child be born.

 

Jon knew nothing about childbirth and even less about children. When did someone know that it was happening? Were there signs?

 

“Is it time?”

 

Dany shook her head and gave him an assuring smile. “I would know that, but only meant that I am glad we reached Dragonstone in time…As you said before, we could finally marry.”

 

“You should tell your Admiral that a storm is coming,” Marwyn and jerked his head at the grey sky.

 

It was chilly, but Jon saw no signs of a coming storm.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“I have spent years travelling on the sea,” Marwyn explained matter-of-factly. “Trust me with this.”

 

Dany gave him a wary look. “They say the Targaryen Fleet was destroyed in one terrible night.”

 

“The same can be said about Volantis,” Marwyn said and was gone. His words had left Jon chilled to the bone and soon he led Dany back down to the warm cabin. The well-tended brazier was a welcome source of warmth and the rest of their travelling companions were huddled around it like children. Especially, Irri and Jhiqui seemed very unhappy and Tyrion looked almost like a swaddled babe in his thick grey cloak. That had puked all morning probably added to the expression of misery on his scrunched face.

 

 _You ought to speak to him_ , his mother had told Jon not long ago. He is drinking himself into an early grave. _I think he needs someone to speak…or some purpose._

 

Jon had noticed Tyrion’s miserable state too, but he was not good at giving comfort, especially not to someone he had conflicted feelings about.

 

 _I shall try it_ , Jon told himself and sat down beside Sansa and Dany’s handmaids.

 

The heat of the brazier touching his frozen fingers felt pleasant, but he could take no conform in it when he noticed that the Red Priest Moqorro was staring at him.

 

He was seated across the room, his staff clutched between his hands and his eyes distant and lost in some otherworldly sphere.

 

Not long after, the Admiral came to join Dany and gave his report.

 

“The bay is free. There is no enemy ship ahead. Perhaps in the castle,” the man explained and jerked his head at Greyworm. He too wore a pelted cloak, a furred cap, gloves, woolen trousers, boots and a thick tunic that had been woven from sheep wool. Irri, Jhiqui and the other women had woven them from the wool they had acquired. Not all Unsullied had gotten one, but all of them had received warmer clothing to bedeck themselves.

 

“We are ready,” Greyworm told her. “Our spears are sharps and our hearts are prepared for battle.”

 

The Dothraki guard came to join them then. They too had been huddled around the other brazier.

 

They said something in Dothraki to Dany, which she returned with a knowing smile and a nod of her head.

 

“They are also prepared to fight,”  she translated for the others. “What do you think?”

 

“That the castle is ripe for taking,” Jon said. “And that we will probably spill blood on our first day in Westeros.”

 

Dany nodded her head. “We always knew that would be the case.”

 

Then, she turned her head to look at Ser Barristan, who had shortened his beard and wore a furred cap and thick white cloak. He looked more like a sheepherder than a knight, but his blade was polished as ever.

 

“I want you to lead the party,” she told Ser Barristan. “You have served here before. You know the castle best.”

 

Ser Jorah, who had watched everything from the wall, glowered as Dany had said this.

 

Dany seemed to have noticed this and smiled give him an assuring smile.

 

“You will stay with me when we land won’t you, Ser Jorah?” she asked. “We had our differences, but you were the first one to enter my service. Thus, it is only right that you stay close to me.”

 

A strange kind of softness washed over Ser Jorah’s face as he lowered his head.

 

“I shall be honored, your Grace.”

 

The winds had turned again when they landed at the coast and the sky had changed to a storm grey color. Fresh snow was falling from the sky when the enemy garrison yielded the castle to them after a short and bloody battle.

 

It had been nothing more than a few hundred men, who had fought against the Unsullied and Dothraki riders, but when Ser Loras Tyrell had seen Ser Barristan he had yielded the castle to the elderly knight.

 

“The castle is yours, your Grace,” the young man told them later after they had hastily anchored the ships and had taken shelter in the castle. He was a handsome young man with wind-swept golden hair and equally golden eyes. His gilded amor and flowery cloak fit his name, the Knight of Flowers.

 

Dany, who eyed the long hall made of shining black stone and lightened by a dozen of glimmering torches, had barely heard the young man and only shifted her attention back to him after Jon had gently touched her shoulder.

 

“I thank you,” Dany said and smiled. “Forgive us for killing your men…we thought you the enemy.”

 

The young man neither smiled nor frowned. He was completely still and watched first Dany and then Jon before his gaze darted to Ser Barristan.

 

“Technically we are  still enemies,” Ser Loras said. “At least that is what my father would say. My sister is wed to the Kingslayer.”

 

“So we heard,” Ser Barristan said. “If you still consider us an enemy, why did you yield?”

 

“I said technically,” Ser Loras corrected Ser Barristan. “But I would be a fool to see all my men burned by dragonfire. I also never shared my father’s views on my sister’s marriage. My true enemy is Stannis Baratheon. It was the only reason I went along with my father’s plans.”

 

“And why is that?” Dany asked and walked towards the steps of the throne, but turned around when she reached the bottom, her gaze searching for Ser Loras’ golden eyes. “If you don’t mind me asking, Ser Loras?”

 

“Stannis is my enemy, because his Red Witch murdered Renly,” Ser Loras replied calmly and stepped towards Dany, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “And the Reach is slowly falling apart…the Ironborn have been raiding our coast and Stannis has been doing the same with our towns and holdfasts. Last I heard, my sister’s unworthy husband has finally taken to the field…that was almost two week turns ago. I personally see not much sense in continuing this struggle…your nephew King Aegon the Sixth of his Name has already taken the capital from Stannis. The way I see it…this war is over. My father will think me a traitor, but I am prepared to bend the knee to your nephew and you as long as you promise to not harm my sister and the child she carries.”

 

Dany had listened in silence, her fist opening and closing, as he had heard the young man’s words. Jon himself had tensed when he had mentioned his half-brother. It was quite clear that Ser Loras believed that Dany and Aegon were allies.

 

“I would gladly receive your vows of allegiance,” Dany said quietly and waved her hand at Jon. “But you are mistaken. This Aegon is not my true nephew. He is most likely a pretender.”

 

Ser Loras’ golden eyes widened in shock. “A pretender? Truly?”

 

“My true nephew is over there,” Dany added quickly and waved her hand at Jon. “Aemon Targaryen.”

 

When the young man’s golden eyes darted back to Jon, they narrowed in confusion.

 

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he said. “But…,” he began, but Jon cut him off.

 

“I know, I do not look like a Targaryen, one of the two dragons is mine,” Jon said. “In the North I am known as Jon Snow, Eddard Stark’s bastard, but in truth I am Lady Lyanna Stark’s and Prince Rhaegar’s son. My mother was Prince Rhaegar’s second wife.”

 

“Impossible,” Ser Loras whispered, his eyes growing wider with every word spilling from Jon’s lips. “Impossible.”

 

“It is true,” his mother added and pulled down the hood of her cloak. Sansa, Dany’s handmaids and Tyrion were beside her, white mist rising from their mouths. They were inside the castle, but it felt as if it had gotten colder in the last hours. “I am Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar wed me almost twenty years ago.”

 

“Utter madness,” Ser Loras muttered and brushed his hand over his curly brown hair. “Robert Baratheon claimed you were raped and murdered, my Lady. How can this be?”

 

“It is a rather long and complicated tale,” Jon said and smiled when he noticed Ghost’s presence. “And we are in dire need for rest…we are planning for a wedding. You and your men are also invited, if you care to join, Ser Loras.”

 

“There won’t be food for such festivities,” Ser Loras said in obvious disbelief as his gaze flickered from Dany to Lady Lyanna. “Our stores were almost empty when we came here and we have been living on salted beef for weeks, but I would be glad to hear this mad tale of yours, my Lady.”

 

“We have full stocks,” Dany assured him quickly. “And we are willing to share with you and your men.”

 

A ghost of a smile played over the young man’s lips. “And I shall be pleased to fill my stomach.”

 

“This is where I was born,” Dany told Jon after he had helped her climb a good thousands of steps towards the Windwyrm tower. At the top of the tower was a large, grim chamber, furnished with dusty tapestries and an old bed. “Viserys told me all about it.”

 

Jon knew only that he had been born on in some tower in Dorne, but seeing this grim chamber, he was glad for it. The worst was the sound of the roaring wind outside and the coldness creeping through the walls.

 

It didn’t surprise him that Irri and Jhiqui were already trying to stir a fire in the hearth. They were craving for some warmth.

 

“You were born during a storm,” Jon said for the lack of a better answer, his gaze darting to her swollen belly. “Perhaps our child will be born like that.”

 

Dany chuckled and touched her belly. “Could be. Marwyn thinks it is due any day.”

 

Jon nodded his head and looked out of the window. The sky had grown only darker and the waves were slashing against the cliffs below. He could also hear the dragon’s song and a moment later he got a glimpse of Drogon’s black wings.

 

A fresh determination entered his mind in that moment.

 

“Daenerys,” he said. “We should get married tonight.”

 

Dany’s head had snapped around faster than an unleashed arrow.

 

“Today? Isn’t that a bit hasty…it is in the middle of the night.”

 

“That is how Northern marriages are done, though we usually wait for a full moon and have a weirwood tree,” he explained further and came closer, taking her hands in his own. “Well, Ser Barristan told me that Dragonstone has a godswood and a heart tree. I also think this castle has a sept and a Septon. We have all we need.”

 

“Very well,” Dany confirmed at last and lifted herself to her toes to kiss him properly and thoroughly. Then, she let go of him and pointed at the door. “But that means you must leave now and send me your mother and sister.”

 

Jon feigned confusion. “Why is that?”

 

Dany chuckled and patted his shoulder. “You know why. I know next to nothing about weddings and your mother can tell me what I need to know. I also need another dress. I cannot wear this.”

 

Jon would prefer her completely naked, but he doubted she would appreciate such an answer, especially since she was often so sensitive about her current looks.

 

“If that is what you want,” Jon said. “I shall do as you ask.”

 

Thus, he let go of her and walked out of the door, where Ser Barristan was standing guard.

 

Jon was not surprised, but told him to get some rest instead. The ten Unsullied guards should be enough to keep out unwanted visitors.

 

Jon found his mother kneeling beside the hearth, poking the pieces of wood she must have stacked only moments ago. Sansa sat beside her in a heavy armchair, rubbing her hands against each other to drive away the chill.

 

Lord Tyrion was also there, his hands wound around a cup of steaming wine. He looked gloomy as ever, but he flashed Jon a half-smile when he noticed his presence.

 

“I recalled Westeros as a bit warmer,” Tyrion said jestingly and drank deeply. “It seems Lord Stark was right. _Winter is here_.”

 

“This his harmless to a real winter in the North,” his mother said and turned to look at Jon. It was still strange for him to see her as his mother, but today he didn’t want to dwell on the past or allow these lies to spoil his wedding day. “How is my good-sister?”

 

“Well,” Jon replied and cleared his throat. “And she wishes for you to help in a rather delicate matter…We decided to be wed tonight.”

 

His mother neither smiled nor frowned. She simply gave a curt nod, rose to her feet and jerked her head at Sansa.

 

“I suppose we have our work cut for ourselves,” his mother told Sansa, who gave Jon a weary smile. “Has this castle even a Septon?”

 

“It does,” Tyrion added sarcastically. “I saw the man earlier. He is old and frail…the brewing storm might just blow him away.”

 

Jon nodded his head, the wind outside echoing louder than before. It sounded like a horde of giants trying to break through the castle gates.

 

Sansa chuckled and followed after his mother, closing the door behind her.

 

Tyrion wrinkled his brows in confusion when Jon laid eyes on him. ”Tysha and I got married while we were horribly drunk. It was the happiest day of my life. You don’t need splendor and twenty-storied cakes to be happy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Well, I think you should at least brush your hair.”

 

“My mother doesn’t seem particularly happy,” Jon said and sat down across Tyrion.

 

“Since when do you care about _her_ approval? The way you treat her one might think she has the plague.”

 

“I don’t,” Jon said in growing annoyance. “I just don’t understand her...that is all.”

 

“I think that goes both ways,” Tyrion said and took another sip from his cup. “But I don’t think your lack of a proper wedding is the reason for her displeasure.  She is afraid of going North…that is all.”

 

Jon felt a strange stab of jealousy when he heard this. “She told you that?”

 

“No,” Tyrion said. “But it is quite obvious. I admit…I am a failure with women, but I am quite good at reading people.”

 

“I won’t allow anyone to mistreat her,” Jon promised and touched Ghost’s head when he nudged his arm. “She has her failures, but she is still my mother. I am not better than her. Most in the North will think me an oathbreaker.”

 

“Stop thinking about what others think of you,” Tyrion told him. “Think  instead of what you want to be. Do you want to be Jon Snow or Aemon Targaryen? I think you already know the answer to that question.”

 

Tyrion was right. Jon knew the answer to that question.

 

Which is, why he did more than just to brush his hair. He got a proper wash with heated water and put on his finest clothing.

 

Aegon’s Garden was a small garden with tall dark trees, wild roses, thorny hedges and cranberries. Its heart tree was an old oak, all bent and broken, but better than nothing.

 

The sky had only grown darker and a cold wind was bending the greenery to its will.

 

It was a meagre wedding attendance, compared to other Kings and Queens before them, but that was no surprise. Aegon’s garden could only carry so many people.

 

There were his mother and Sansa, who had changed into finer dresses, but still wore their thick fur cloaks and caps, Ser Barristan who wore a fresh white cloak, Tyrion, who had at least washed his face, Greyworm in company of the other Unsullied companions, the Dothraki riders and Ser Jorah, who were glowering whenever a gust of cold wind washed over them and even Ser Loras Tyrell and a dozen of his knights.

 

Daenerys came at last, garbed in a very long, pale dress fastened with a silver belt, her white-lion pelt wrapped around her shoulders and her crown resting atop her silver hair.

 

The Septon, who was called Ewald, was indeed a fragile and thin man. He was trembling from head to toe and constantly rubbing his hands, his green eyes fearfully darting upwards when the branches rustled, as if he feared the tree might collapse at him at any moment.

 

The man eyed Jon from the side, as he stepped closer to take Dany’s hand in his.

 

“Before we begin I have something for you,” Dany told him and waved her hand at Irri, who stepped forward and handed her something wrapped in a red cloth. “I had something made for you.”

 

Jon brought no word over his mouth, as she revealed the silver band with six spikes and inlaid with runes and beautiful gemstones.

 

It was a crown, for him.

 

That was such a strange thing to say, but it was true.

 

“Do you like it?” Dany asked him, her eyes glimmering like two amethysts. “I didn’t…” she began, but Jon cut her off.

 

“I am just not used to such things,” he told her and picked up the crown, to placed it atop his head. It felt so strange, but when he saw Dany smile, he knew that she was pleased and that was all that counted to him. “But the crown is very beautiful. I couldn’t have made it any better.”

 

“I am glad,” she told him and shifted her attention back to the shuddering Septon.

 

“Forgive me, venerable Ser,” she said. “It is time to say our vows.”

 

“Of course,” the man answered through clattering teeth. ”Let me just…let me give the seven blessings…and,” he rambled, but Jon’s mother cleared her throat.

 

“I think the vows are enough; venerable Ser. A storm is coming.”

 

The Septon nodded his head in obvious relief, as he pulled a golden cloth from the scrubby bag of his robes.

 

“Now speak after me,” he said and wound the cloth around their joined hands. “Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith…Stranger,” he rattled on, trembling at every word.

 

“He is mine,” Dany repeated after the Septon.

 

“And she is mine,” Jon added.

 

 “From this day till the end of my days,” Dany and Jon repeated together.

 

Then, they kissed softly and Jon gave her his cloak, though there was no real need for it.

 

In that moment, fresh snowflakes started to fall from the sky and were caught in Dany’s cloak and crown, covering the three-headed dragon with a crystal shine.

 

Yet, there was no clapping to be heard, only a sound of rolling thunder and a heartbeat later a sharp gust of wind washed over them.

 

It had taken Jon completely off guard and he and Dany had been pushed backwards, against the tree.

 

The poor Septon was already grouching on the ground when another gust of wind washed over them.

 

“The enemy is stirring,” Moquorro said calmly as ever, his crimson robes fluttering behind him like a red banner. Marwyn, was not far, his gaze narrowing at the dark sky. “We ought to retreat inside. This place is protected by ancient spells. We should be save enough, but light a fire to be sure.”

 

“There is something strange about this storm,” Marwyn added and nodded his head. “Is it magic?”

 

“It is,” Moqorro added. “The Magic of the Great Other, unleashed by a fool.”

 

Jon didn’t know what to make of these words and occupied himself by helping Dany back to her feet, who was grimacing and holding her belly.

 

“Are you well?” Jon asked fearfully, thoughts of dark magic forgotten. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell down?

 

She laughed and pointed at her wet skirt.

 

“No, I am not hurt, but my waters broke.”

 

Within the blink of a moment, Dany was ushered into these grim chambers she lied so much, where she had been born in. Jon took it as a bad omen, but Dany insisted upon it and neither his mother nor Dany’s seemed to be bothered by it.

 

Ser Loras offered to send for the Maester in their employ, but Marwyn was quick to offer his service, at which Dany grimaced, but didn’t refuse either, when another wave of pain washed over her.

 

“Are you well?” Jon asked again, not really knowing what to say. He had no experience with childbirth.

 

“I am fine,” she told him through clenched teeth. “I suppose that is normal.”

 

“Very normal,” Marwyn assured him and pushed him aside. “And now you must leave.”

 

Then, he jerked his head at the ladies, namely, Lady Lyanna and the handmaids.

 

“The ladies may stay. They could be useful.”

And they had already proven useful. By now, they had brought hot water and clean cloths. When they had done it, had escaped Jon, but then his attention had been focused elsewhere.

“Jon,” Sansa said and patted his shoulder. Jon blinked at her. She must be a ghost, for she had appeared out of nowhere. “I think he we should leave.”

“No,” Jon refused, but Dany cut him off.

“You will go,” she insisted. “Now.”

“Tis is no place for men. You would only be in the way,” his mother added and directed him back to Sansa.

“You should listen to her,” Marwyn added as he looked over his shoulder. “Tis will get unpleasant. I know what I am speaking about.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath and walked towards the door, his gaze seeking Dany’s in the last moment, hoping she might change her mind.

She was shaking her head, her cheeks slightly flushed.

“Believe me, you don’t want see this. I am sure when the time comes I am going to curse off your balls! Now leave!”

Jon realized this was his cue to leave and was led to join Tyrion, Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah, who were all drinking and listening to the howling wind.

“What a horrible storm,” Ser Barristan noticed. “At this rate, we are going to lose some ships.”

“This island is save enough,” Moquorro assured them. “I spoke a blessing for us. The evil will not reach this island, but we will soon have to confront it.”

Jon said nothing and drank deeply from the cup Tyrion offered to him. In that moment, Sansa left then with a quick smile, her skirt pulled up as she disappeared through the door.

“This should help,” Tyrion said and patted his shoulder. “Two or three should be enough to calm your mind.”

Jon tried to head Tyrion’s advice, but not even four cups of wine were enough to calm restless mind.

Yet, that was not the worst of it. When he found himself unable to sit still, he rose to his feet to listen to the howling of the storm.

“The enemy is stirring from its slumber,” Moqorro told him again after he had risen from his place beside the brazier. “Soon, you will meet his herald in a castle of thorns and death. I saw it in the flames.”

As so often, Jon didn’t know what to make of the Red Priest’s words. “His herald? Who is that?”

“A man with the head of a kraken, the body of a human and an eye as blue as frost,” Moqorro explained. “To reach the light you must pass beneath the shadows…in short…you must kill him, a man beyond death.”

“How can one be beyond death?” Jon prodded further.

“What is death may never die, but rises stronger and harder,” Moqorro answered. “These are the words of another false god… _supposedly_ the Drowned God he was called and once a faithful servant of the Great Other.”

“The Drowned God was a servant of the Great Other?”

“That is what the tales say,” Moquorro confirmed. “But tales are not the truth. Even the visions of in the fire are dependent on the interpretation of the beholder. Especially, those not trained in the art are often prone to errors.”

“Then, I hope you are one of those,” replied Jon, when he noticed Ghost’s presence, his wolf’s nose nudging his arm. ”Because what you describe is worse than having to face my Uncle and all the other enemies waiting for me.”

“What is it, boy?” he asked the wolf, but Moqorro answered for him and pointed at Sansa, who must have returned only moments ago.

“It is time,” Moqorro told him and would have probably said more if Jon hadn’t rushed to Sansa’s side.

All these grim thoughts were forgotten, when Jon entered he chamber he had left earlier.

It smelled of blood and there was some other pungent smell that seemed to penetrate the entire chamber.

His gaze darted first to Dany and then to the squalling, red-faced babe in her arms.

Jon couldn’t help but to smile, filled with a joy the likes of which he had never known before.

“It is a rather loud boy!” Marwyn complained as he washed his hands in a bowl of water, held out to him by his mother. Irri and Jhiqui were also there, eying the man curiously as they were wringing out the wet blankets. “It makes my ears bleed!”

“You are rather sensible for an Archmaester,” his mother remarked sarcastically as she grabbed Marwyn’s arm and pulled him along. “And now  please come along and spare your ears the pain.”

Irri and Jhiqui followed his example and closed the door behind them.

Marwyn was right.

His son’s cry was sharp.

Dany, whose face was still slightly flushed, showed him the babe.

His head was a bit long and his hair was dark, but when Dany placed him into his arms, the boy’s cries ceased immediately and he opened his beautiful pair of amethyst eyes.

“He has your eyes,” Jon said at once.

“And your hair,” Dany added, her voice laced exhaustion. “And he finally stopped crying. I thought he would never stop…he is worse than Viserys! The dragon’s roar he called it, though this one looks more like a dragonwolf!”

Jon laughed.

“Does it matter?”

Dany shook her head and leaned back against her pillows.

“I feared he would be like Rhaego…,” she began, her voice strangely melancholic.

Jon touched the babe’s head, who started to gurgle.

“Well, the scales and wings might grow in time,” he jested and promptly received a slap on the shoulder and a cry of protest from the babe in his arms.

“I don’t think he likes that idea,” Dany told him and held out her hands. “Or perhaps he is just hungry.”

Jon nodded his head and handed the babe back to her.

“So, what are we going to call him?”  he asked her as she bared her breast and fed the babe.

“Gaemon,” she said and smiled warmly. “Like we said?”

Jon nodded his head in confirmation, a smile crossing over his lips as he listened to the thunder and storm waging staging a war against each other.

“Gaemon the Stormborn.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for understanding: chronological this chapter takes place further in the future of this story than I have written. However, it does not have many spoilers. However, the following chapters will be less uplifting and I wanted to write something uplifting for christmas. That is why I am positing it today. I will add the other chapters where they belong.
> 
> The Princess and the Bastard will also be updated in the following days. I had not much time to write due to Christmas stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon for this story is that Jon got away and fled to Essos. So no, he wasn't executed. He just said fuck this and left.


End file.
